When I was sixteen, he was sitting upright, looking exhausted. Mom handed him the bag. “You okay, Eli?”
He hesitated, then said quietly, “I used to have a little sister.”
Something in his voice twisted my stomach.
“She was the only family I had. We aged out of foster care together. Then a car crash took her.”
Mom didn’t pry. She just nodded, understanding pain that didn’t need words.
That year, she brought him gloves and thick socks.
The next year, a grocery gift card. “It came in the mail,” she said, though I knew she bought it herself.
Once, she even offered to help him find a room.
Eli flinched, like she’d offered chains. “I can’t,” he said politely.
“Why not?”
He looked at me, then down. “Because I’d rather freeze than owe anyone.”
Mom didn’t push. She just nodded. “Okay. But dinner still stands.”
