An unidentified bidder offered us a fortune, much above our expectations. Mom couldn’t believe her luck.
Three weeks later, she was gone. The hospital room was quiet, save for the slow beep of monitors.
Time slid gone like grains of sand.
On Christmas Eve, I found myself alone in my basement, watching shadows dance on the wall from passing car headlights. After Mom d.i.e.d, I couldn’t take the pitying looks, awkward conversations, and well-intended but cruel questions about how I was “holding up.”
But suddenly, a loud knock on my door startled me. I approached warily, gazing through the peephole to see a man in an exquisite suit holding a gift box tied with a lovely bow.
“Miss Evie?
I have a delivery for you.”
I opened the door with a crack while keeping the chain on. “A gift?
For me?”
“There’s an invitation too. I assure you, everything will make sense soon.”
But what was beneath made my heart stop: Mom’s final painting.
There I was, caught in time by our old kitchen window, drawing birds on a spring morning.
The man looked up. “You’ll get your answers, don’t worry. My boss would like to meet you.
Do you accept the invitation?”
“Now, if you’re willing.
The car is waiting.”
The car came up to a home that was like something out of a holiday movie, complete with dazzling lights and wreaths in every window. Mrs.
Peterson appeared inside, rising from an armchair – the same woman I had saved on that trip two years before. “I saw your mother’s work featured in a local art gallery’s online post,” she explained.
“When I saw the painting of you, I knew I had to have it.
Something about the way you were capturing those birds…” She trailed off, her eyes growing distant. “It reminded me so much of my daughter.”
“How did you find me?” I whispered. “I have my ways,” she said with a small smile.
“I contacted the hospital and convinced them to share your address, given the circumstances.
I wanted to make sure you were taken care of, even if I couldn’t save your mother.”
“I lost my daughter last year to c.a.n.c.e.r. She was about your age.” She touched the frame of the painting gently.
“When I saw this listed online — a mother’s last artwork being sold to pay for her treatment — I knew I had to help. Even if I was too late.”
“Spend Christmas with me,” she said finally.
“No one should be alone on Christmas!”
This Christmas, I found a family again.
And, though nothing could fill the void left by my mother’s absence, maybe with Mrs. Peterson’s aid, I could build a new home… one that respected the past while offering me hope for the future.
