Carlos froze, startled. Slowly, he held up a small orange bottle—my heart medication. “You didn’t take this,” he said gently. “My abuela used to take the same pills. I thought you might need them.”
Relief and embarrassment washed over me. “Oh… I forgot. Thank you,” I whispered, still shaken. He set the bottle on my nightstand and quietly wished me goodnight.
The next morning, I made pancakes and gave him a scarf I had knitted years ago. He smiled warmly as he accepted it, but as we ate, he stood abruptly.
“I should go now,” he said, grabbing his duffel bag.
“Where will you go?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.”
“Wait,” I said. “Why don’t you stay? Help me around the house and keep me company. You can work off room and board.”
His hesitant expression softened into a smile. “Really? Thank you.”
In the weeks that followed, Carlos proved to be respectful, kind, and hardworking. On New Year’s Eve, he opened up about his past. His parents had disowned him for pursuing art instead of a “practical” career. After a thieving roommate left him broke, he spiraled into homelessness. His quiet resilience moved me deeply.
“You’re safe here,” I told him, and for the first time, he let his guard down.
A year later, Carlos isn’t a guest but family. With my support, he found a job and a small apartment nearby. He often visits, bringing joy and laughter back into my once-quiet home. Even David and his family adore him, especially Lily, who calls him her “Christmas hero.”
As we decorate the tree together this year, I can’t help but marvel at how much has changed. Carlos insists I saved his life that snowy Christmas Eve, but the truth is, he saved mine.