For years, my mother, Evelyn, prepared an extra plate of Christmas dinner for a homeless man named Henry who slept in our town’s laundromat. Every Christmas Eve, she brought him warm food and reminded me that everyone deserved kindness. I never understood why she cared for him so deeply.
When my mother died of cancer, I decided to continue her tradition. I cooked ham, mashed potatoes, green beans, and cornbread, then carried the extra plate to the laundromat. But Henry’s corner was empty.
The owner directed me to a small room behind the washers. There sat Henry, thinner and grayer than I remembered. When I told him my mother had died, he began crying. Then he handed me a wooden box she had left with him.
Inside were old photographs, letters, and a silver key. One photograph showed my mother as a young woman standing beside Henry. I recognized his eyes and the scar beside his eyebrow.
