I moved out after high school, started a life that looked fine from the outside.
Then cancer came for my mother. Subtle at first—fatigue, weight loss, a laugh that sounded thinner.“
Probably just my thyroid acting up, dear,” she said.
It wasn’t.
She was gone in under a year.
We didn’t get one last Christmas. Just a blurry fall of doctors, silence, and watching the strongest person I knew disappear piece by piece.
By December, I was surviving. Showering, paying rent, functioning. But I was angry—at everyone who still had their mom, and at myself for not being able to save mine.
On Christmas Eve, I stood in her kitchen, staring at her old roasting pan. I almost didn’t cook.
But her voice echoed in my head: “It’s for someone who needs it.”
So I made what I could—baked chicken, instant mashed potatoes, canned green beans, boxed cornbread. I packed it the way she always did.
I drove to the laundromat, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding me together.
The building looked the same—flickering lights, buzzing sign, soapy smell.
But inside, everything was different.
Eli was there.
But not like I remembered.
No hoodie. No blanket. No plastic bag.
He wore a dark suit, pressed and clean. He stood tall, shoulders back. In one hand, he held white lilies.
I froze.
He turned, saw me, and his eyes softened, filling with tears.
“You came,” he said, voice rough with emotion.
“Eli?” I whispered.
He nodded. “Yeah… it’s me.”
I held up the dinner bag awkwardly. “I brought food.”
He smiled, shaky and sad. “She taught you well… your mother.”
I swallowed hard. “Why are you dressed like… that?”
Eli looked down at the lilies. “They’re for your mom.”
My heart raced. “She’s gone.”
“I know. I know she is.”
Then he said something that made my heart pound louder.
“I tried to find you after the funeral, Abby. Didn’t want to intrude. But I needed you to know something. Something your mom asked me not to tell you until I could prove I wasn’t just a guy in a corner anymore.”
