“You didn’t take this,” he said gently. “I saw it on the counter. My abuela used to take this every night before bed.”
Relief and shame flooded over me. “Oh. I… I forgot. Thank you.”
He nodded, setting the bottle on the nightstand. “Goodnight,” he said softly, then disappeared down the hall.
I stared at the bottle, my chest tight with embarrassment. I had assumed the worst, but he had only been looking out for me.
The next morning, I made pancakes using the last of my frozen blueberries. Carlos sat at the table, hesitant but grateful. I slid a small box across to him.
“What’s this?” he asked, surprised.
“Open it.”
Inside was a scarf I had knitted years ago, red and white. Not fancy, but warm. He smiled, wrapping it around his neck.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
After breakfast, he stood, grabbed his duffel bag, and said, “You’ve done so much for me, but I should go now.”
“Where will you go?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”
“Wait,” I said. “Why don’t you stay a little longer? Help me around the house. I could use the company.”
His eyes lit up with hope. “Really?”
“Of course. Consider it room and board in exchange for some help.”
He set down his bag, smiling.
In the weeks that followed, Carlos became part of my routine. Quiet and respectful, he kept to himself and slowly began to open up. One night, by the fire, he shared his story.
He had been kicked out by his parents for choosing art over a “practical” career. A series of bad breaks had left him homeless, jobless, and alone.
“You saved my life,” he said, staring into the fire.
I reached over, placing a hand on his. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore. You’re safe here.”
A year later, Carlos had a job and a small apartment nearby but visited often. He became part of the family, even charming my granddaughter Lily.
As we decorated the Christmas tree together, I realized how much my life had changed. Carlos wasn’t a stranger anymore—he was family.
He always says I saved his life, but the truth is, he saved mine, too.