I watched her walk down the path, snow crunching under her shoes, then shut the door and thought that was the end of it.

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.

Her sister arrived—crying, shouting, and hugging her all at once.

She made it home safely.

She told her family everything.

About the bus stop.

The cold.

My house.

The guest room.

The meal.

She said her family didn’t have much.

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.