Every Christmas, my mother carried a warm meal to a homeless man at the laundromat down our street. She did it year after year without fail. This time, she wasn’t there anymore—cancer had taken her. So I went in her place, continuing what she had started. But the moment I saw him, I knew something was different. And nothing could have prepared me for the truth she had hidden all those years.

“Eli?” I whispered.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

I held up the bag awkwardly. “I brought dinner.”

He smiled faintly. “She taught you well.”

I swallowed. “Why are you dressed like that?”

He looked down at the flowers. “They’re for your mom.”

My heart pounded. “She passed away.”

“I know.”

Then he said quietly, “I tried to find you after the funeral. I didn’t want to intrude. But there’s something you need to know—something your mom asked me not to tell you until I proved I’d changed.”