‘My name is Laura,’ she added.
‘I’m a tired mother,’ I replied. ‘That’s about all I can say about myself.’
She laughed softly, surprised.
Throughout the ride, she kept apologising.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I swear I’m not unstable.’
‘I’m leaving early in the morning — you don’t have to feed me.’
‘You’re fine,’ I repeated over and over. ‘You’re not a burden. This was my choice.’
We pulled into my driveway.
The lamplight softened the peeling paint, almost making it look cosy.
‘Is this your house?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘It belonged to my grandparents.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, and I could tell she meant it.
Inside, the air smelled of detergent and old wood.
The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled in the living room.
‘Sorry for the mess,’ I said out of habit.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she replied.
I showed her into the small guest room.
A single bed.
A worn blanket.
A chest of drawers that leaned slightly to one side.
But the sheets were clean.
‘I’ll get you some towels,’ I said. ‘The bathroom is on the right. Are you hungry?’
‘You’ve already done so much,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I don’t want to take anything else from you.’
‘You’re not taking anything,’ I said gently. ‘I’m offering. Let me.’
Her shoulders relaxed a little.
‘All right,’ she whispered.
In the kitchen, I reheated the leftover pasta and garlic bread.
I added carrots, mainly to convince myself that it was balanced.
When I returned, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her coat, slowly rocking Oliver.
‘I can hold him while you eat,’ I offered.
She instantly tensed up.
‘Oh, no, no. I’ll do it myself. We’ll eat later.’
She tried to eat, managed a few bites, then focused on him again.
‘I’m sorry, darling. Mummy’s trying. I’m so sorry.’
It hit me right in the heart.
I had never said those words out loud to my girls — but I had thought them more times than I could count.
That night, sleep came in fragments.
Every creak in the house woke me.
One voice in my head said I had done the right thing.
Another whispered, ‘You let a stranger into your home. Brilliant.’
At one point, I got up on the pretext of checking the thermostat and glanced into the guest room.
Laura was sitting half-reclining, leaning against the wall.
Oliver was asleep on her chest.
Her arms were wrapped around him like a seatbelt.
In the morning, I was awakened by a quiet movement.
I went out into the hallway.
The door to the guest room was open.
Laura was inside, neatly making the bed.
The blanket she had used was folded carefully.
The towels were stacked neatly.
Oliver was wrapped in her arms again.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I said.
She jumped, then smiled sheepishly.
‘I didn’t want to leave a mess,’ she said. ‘You’ve already done so much.’
‘Do you need a lift to your sister’s?’ I asked.
‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ she said. ‘I can meet her at the station once my phone is charged.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ I replied. ‘Come on, come on, I’ll take you.’
At the door, she turned and hugged me awkwardly, still holding Oliver with one arm.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘If you hadn’t stopped… I don’t know what would have happened.’
I hugged her back.
‘I’m glad I stopped,’ I said.
I watched her walk down the path, the snow crunching under her shoes, then closed the door and thought that was the end of it.
Two days later.
Christmas morning.
The girls were finally home.
They were in their pyjamas, their hair tousled, practically jumping up and down by the tree.
‘Can we open them now? Please?’ begged my five-year-old daughter.
‘Rock, paper, scissors,’ I said. ‘First to win. Those are the rules.’
They played.
The younger one won and did a victory dance that resembled an interpretation of karate.
She was reaching for the first present when the doorbell rang.
We all froze.
‘Santa?’ she whispered.
My seven-year-old daughter snorted sceptically.
‘Santa doesn’t ring the doorbell,’ she said. ‘Use your head.’
‘Maybe he forgot something,’ suggested the younger one.
I laughed.
‘I’ll get it.’
At the door stood a courier, his cheeks pink from the cold, holding a large box wrapped in shiny Christmas paper.
A big red bow.
‘A parcel for you,’ he said, tilting it so I could see the label.
My name was written in neat handwriting.
No sender was listed.
I signed for it, thanked him, and carried the box to the kitchen.
The girls crowded around the door like curious kittens.
‘Is it for us?’ asked the youngest.
‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘Let me take a look first.’
My heart was pounding, and I didn’t understand why.
I removed the wrapping paper.
Underneath was a plain cardboard box.
I opened the lid.
On top was a folded letter.
The first line hit me like a blow:
‘Dear kind stranger.’