My heart was pounding, and I didn’t know why.
I peeled off the wrapping paper.
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.
She made it home safely.
She told her family everything.
About the bus stop.
The cold.
My house.
The guest room.
The meal.
Her parents lived on a fixed income.
Her sister worked two jobs.
There was no way for them to repay me in any meaningful way.
If you want it softer, more grateful, or more dramatic, I can adjust the wording instantly.
“But you gave us warmth and safety when you didn’t have to,” she wrote.
“If you hadn’t stopped, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me and Oliver.”
She said her sister had teenage daughters.
As they heard what happened, they wanted to help.
“They went through their clothes,” she wrote.
“They picked things they loved. They said they wanted your girls to feel special.”
My eyes blurred.
I set the letter down and looked into the box.
Clothes.
Neatly folded.
Soft sweaters in my girls’ sizes.
Dresses that looked almost new.
Jeans. Leggings. Pajamas.
Shoes in great condition.
A pair of sparkly boots that made my seven-year-old gasp.
“Mom,” she whispered. “These are amazing.”
My five-year-old held up a dress with stars on it.
“Is this for me?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice cracking. “It’s for you.”
At the bottom of the box were a couple of costumes — a princess dress, a witch outfit, a superhero cape.
There was a smaller note in different handwriting.
“From our girls to yours,” it said, with a little heart.
That was when the tears really started.
“Mommy?” my older daughter said softly. “Why are you crying?”
I knelt down and pulled them both into a hug.
“I’m crying,” I said, “because sometimes people are really, really kind. And sometimes, when you do something good, it comes back to you.”
“Like a boomerang,” my five-year-old said.
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