Every Christmas, My Mother Shared a Meal With a Stranger. This Year, Carrying On Her Tradition Changed My Life Forever

That plate never made it to our table.

When I was eight years old, I finally asked about it. I watched my mother carefully wrap the food in foil, her movements slow and intentional, as if what she was doing mattered just as much as the meal itself.

“That one isn’t for us,” she said gently.

I stood there in my socks, curious and confused. “Then who is it for?”

She smiled but didn’t answer directly. She slipped the foil-wrapped plate into a grocery bag and tied the handles together with the same care she used when fixing my scarf before I went outside.

“It’s for someone who needs it,” was all she said.

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