Every Christmas Eve, my mom cooked a warm, simple feast in our small kitchen—ham when she could afford it, buttery mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, cornbread that filled the apartment with comfort. But one plate was always wrapped separately in foil and placed in a grocery bag. It wasn’t for us. When I asked who it was for, she’d just say, “Someone who needs it.” We’d walk to the old 24-hour laundromat at the end of our street, where a young homeless man named Eli slept near the soda machine. My mom never avoided him or rushed past.

She knelt, handed him the food, and said, “I brought you dinner.” He always replied, “You don’t have to.”