Page 30 of Remain

A man stands there, tall and tentative, his dark hair cropped short, his eyes cautious but hopeful. Behind him, a woman peers out with one hand resting protectively on the smaller boy’s shoulder, while the older one cranes his neck around her, curiosity slowly winning out over shyness.

“Hi,” I point to my Santa hat and clipboard like it explains everything. “We’re with The Christmas Kindness Drive.”

The man blinks, looks to his wife for any further clues and says something softly in a language I don’t know, but I understand the question anyway.

I smile, slow and careful. “We’re here with gifts. For the boys.”

The woman’s hand flies to her mouth.

“No,” she says, accented, breathless. “No, we can’t afford…”

“It’s okay,” I rush to interrupt her thought. “It’s not charity. It’s… tradition.” I falter, suddenly unsure how to explain something I’ve never had to explain before. “It’s for families who are new. Or who might need a little help. Especially at Christmas.”

“Christmas,” the older boy repeats, testing the word like it’s fragile.

“Yes,” I confirm, kneeling slightly so I’m closer to him. “Your first one here, right?”

The man nods. “We came three weeks ago,” he says carefully, like he has ben rehearsing the words. “Everything is… new.”

“Then welcome,” I respond with emotion rising unexpectedly. “To your new home. To Pineview.”

The woman’s eyes shine, tears falling from them. She presses her palm to her chest. “Thank you,” her voice thick with gratitude. “This.. this is kindness.”

Erik steps forward with two wrapped gifts. He doesn’t say anything, he rarely does in moments like this, but his presence is grounding, steady as he steps forward and crouches to the boys’ level.

“These are for you,” he says softly, holding the gifts out.

The boys hesitate. The younger one looks up at his mother, then at Erik. Instead of reaching for the boxes, he steps forward and wraps his arms around Erik’s neck. The older one follows, clutching Erik’s coat like it’s an anchor.

Erik stills.

I see it, the way his breath catches, the way his hands hover for half a second before settling gently at their backs. He closes his eyes and holds them close. Something in him breaks, something in him gives way. I see it in the way his shoulders dip, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for decades.

The parents exchange a look, awe passing between them.

“They don’t have the words,” the man says quietly. “But they know this. They know kindness.”

“I know,” I say, my voice barely holding. “And that’s always more than enough.”

The woman reaches for my hands, squeezing them between hers. “Who started this?” she asks. “This…Kindness Drive?”

I swallow. “I don’t actually know,” I admit. “It’s been here as long as I can remember.”

She smiles, tears slipping free. “Whoever they are… they gave us our first Christmas.”

This must have been how my mom felt all those years.

“You made us feel at home,” the man adds. “We will remember this.”

Erik finally pulls back, clearing emotion from his throat. He hands the boxes to the boys, who clutch them like treasure but stay close, still touching him like they’re afraid the moment might disappear.

“Merry Christmas,” his voice barely holding together.

Back in the truck, neither of us speaks for a long moment. I stare through the windshield as snow begins to fall again, soft and quiet, as if the world is trying not to intrude.

“They chose you first,” I say eventually, my voice shaky. “Before the gifts. Those boys chose you first, and it was really beautiful to watch.”

Erik swallows before answering. “It meant more to me than I could ever say.”