For illustration only.
While doing my business class checks, I heard a man’s panicked voice. An elderly woman held her throat three seats ahead, turning her face a disturbing scarlet.
“She chokes!” Almost standing, another passenger shouted.
“I can help, madam. Can you breathe? Asking the lady.
Her eyes were wide as she shook her head in terror.
I hugged her torso just above her navel and pushed up with all my might. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Third time, I heard a gasp.
A chicken piece flew across the aisle and hit a man’s newspaper.
She gazed up at me with warm, tearful eyes. My hand was tightly grasped.
For illustration only.
“Thanks, honey. This is unforgettable. Mrs. Peterson, you saved my life.”
When bad times arrive, it’s easy to forget good moments. After Mom was diagnosed, all else faded. I quit flight attendant to care for her.
My automobile, Grandpa’s suburban house, and Mom’s art collection were sold.
Mom said, “You don’t have to do this, Evie,” as I handed her the resignation letter to read. “I can manage.”
Like you did when I had pneumonia in third grade? Or when I shattered my high school arm?” I kissed her forehead. “Let me look after you once.”
Her favorite watercolor of me sitting by our kitchen window drawing two birds establishing a nest in the maple tree was the last to leave.
We found gold online.
For illustration only.
An unknown bidder gave us a fortune, exceeding our expectations. Mom wondered how she got lucky.
Three weeks later, she left. The hospital room was quiet except for monitor beeps.
Time slipped away like sand. I watched automobile headlight shadows on my basement wall on Christmas Eve alone.
After Mom d.i.e.d, I couldn’t handle the pitying looks, awkward talks, and well-meaning but nasty queries about my “holding up.”
An unexpected loud knock on my door surprised me.
I approached cautiously, peering through the peephole to see a man in a fine suit holding a gift box with a bow.
“Miss Evie? My delivery is for you.”
For illustration only.
I cracked the door with the chain on. “A gift? For me?”
An invitation is included. I promise everything will make sense soon.”
Mom’s final artwork beneath broke my heart. I was frozen in time at our old kitchen window drawing birds on a spring morning.
“Wait!” Calling out. “Who are you? Why return this painting?
He looked up. You’ll get answers, don’t worry. My employer wants to meet you. Accept the invitation?
If you’re willing. The automobile awaits.”
The automobile pulled up to a holiday movie-like home with twinkling lights and wreaths on every window.
I saw Mrs. Peterson rise from an armchair inside—the same woman I saved two years earlier.
“I saw your mother’s work featured in a local art gallery’s online post,” she said. “When I saw your painting, I had to have it. Something about your bird capture… Trailing off, her eyes grew faraway. “It resembled my daughter.”
For illustration only.
“How did you find me?” I whispered.
“I have my ways,” she added, lightly smiling. I persuaded the hospital to divulge your address given the circumstances. I wanted to protect you even if I couldn’t save your mother.”
“C.a.n.c.e.r. killed my daughter last year. She was your age.” She lightly touched the painting frame. “When I saw this online—a mother’s last artwork being auctioned to pay for treatment—I knew I had to help. Even if I was late.”
“Spend Christmas with me,” she decided. “No one should be alone on Christmas!”
This Christmas, I found family again. Although my mother’s absence could not be filled, Mrs. Peterson’s help might help me create a new home that honored the past and offered hope for the future.
