Fast-forward two days.
Christmas morning.
The girls were finally home.
They were in their pajamas, hair everywhere, practically vibrating around the tree.
“Can we open them now? Pleeease?” my five-year-old begged.
“Rock-paper-scissors,” I said. “Winner goes first. Those are the rules.”
They played.
The little one won and did a victory dance that looked like interpretive karate.
She was reaching for the first present when the doorbell rang.
We all froze.
“Santa?” she whispered.
My seven-year-old scoffed.
“Santa doesn’t ring doorbells,” she said. “Use your brain.”
“Maybe he forgot something,” the little one said.
I laughed.
“I’ll get it.”
A courier stood on the porch, cheeks pink from the cold, holding a large box wrapped in glossy Christmas paper.
Big red bow.
“Delivery for you,” he said, tilting it so I could see the tag.
My name was written on it in neat handwriting.
No sender listed.
I signed, thanked him, and carried the box into the kitchen.
The girls hovered in the doorway like nosy little cats.
“Is it for us?” my younger one asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Let me look first.”
My heart was pounding, and I didn’t know why.
I peeled off the wrapping paper.
Underneath was a regular cardboard box.
I opened the flaps.
On top was a folded letter.
The first line hit me like a punch.
“Dear kind stranger.”
“Mommy?” my older daughter asked. “Why are you making that face?”
I hadn’t realized my hands were shaking.
I swallowed and started to read.
It was from Laura.
She wrote that after I dropped her off, someone at the station let her charge her phone.
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