Page 29 of Remain

A woman steps out, bundled too thin for the cold, her face already pinched with apology.

“Good morning,” I gently greet her, lifting the clipboard like a peace offering. “We’re here with The Christmas Kindness Drive.”

Her breath catches. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh,” she whispers. “You didn’t have to…”

“We wanted to,” Erik calms her, already lifting a box from the truck. “Merry Christmas.”

The kids appear behind her, two of them, wide-eyed, barefoot on the threshold despite the cold. When Erik hands the gifts over, the younger one lets out a sound so pure it hurts, like joy surprised itself. The older one clutches the box to his chest as if it might vanish if he loosens his grip.

The woman cries quietly.

So do I.

Every house is different, yet the reaction never really changes. There’s disbelief first, then gratitude, and finally a relief that softens into something like hope.

At one stop, a father grips my hands in both of his, eyes shining. “Your mother,” he says, voice thick. “Diane. Shehelped us when we didn’t know how we were going to make it through that winter.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard her name out loud since I’ve been home and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Each thank you feels like a thread pulling me backward and forward at the same time.

My mother is everywhere and nowhere all at once, alive in all the ways that matter.

Thank her,” he whispers. “Please.”

I wish I could more than anything.

Back in the truck, my hands are shaking as I settle into the seat. Erik doesn’t comment on it. He simply reaches over and turns the heat up a notch, the gesture quiet and practiced, as if he understands exactly what I need without asking.

We go again, and then again. A duplex near the high school. An apartment above the bakery. A trailer tucked behind the old mill. Each door opens a little differently, but every reaction lands the same way. Hands fly to mouths. Tears are wiped away quickly, almost apologetically, like they’re embarrassed to need this much.

And again and again, I hear it.

“Your mom.”

“She was so kind.”

“She never made us feel small.”

“She remembered my kids’ names.”

“I’ll never forget her.”

She’s still moving through town ahead of me, leaving warmth in her wake.

By the time I read the next address, I hesitate.

Erik notices my shift in energy immediately. “What is it?”

I tilt the clipboard toward him, and he goes quiet immediately. It’s his old house, the one near the edge of town with the crooked fence and the maple tree out front that neverquite managed to lose all its leaves, no matter how hard winter tried.

“You want me to take this one?” I ask quietly.

“No,” he stares out past me through the passenger window, taking in a breath of confidence. “I’ve got it.”

“We’ve got it.” I place my hand on his arm across the centre console of the truck.

He half chuckles and exhales long before stepping out of the truck.

The front door opens before we knock.