She didn’t thank me at first. She just clutched the jacket like it might disappear. I handed her a grocery bag, scribbled my address on the pie box, and murmured, “If you need help, I’m Eric.”
A tiny whispered thank you and I walked away. That night, I lied to Sarah over video, pretending I’d eaten a proper meal. But I couldn’t stop wondering—was she warm? Did she have somewhere safe to go? Eventually, I told myself I had done enough.
I hadn’t forgotten her. I had just tucked the memory into quiet corners of my heart. Then, one Thanksgiving afternoon, the doorbell rang.
Sarah and her husband were arguing over board games and cocoa when I opened the door.
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