After my wife died, holidays became painfully quiet. No laughter. No crowded table. No voice reminding everyone to come eat before the food got cold. This year, though, I was sure things would be different. My family promised they would all come back home for dinner. I believed them. I held onto that promise like a lifeline. At seventy-eight years old, I had been counting down the days to this holiday dinner like a little boy waiting for Christmas morning. I marked the date on the calendar. I talked about

I’m the maintenance guy everyone in this fancy gated community pretends not to see. Most days I sweep their sidewalks, unclog drains, and sleep in a tiny storage room, listening to whispers and rumors about what a “dangerous” man I am—until one freezing morning, everything changed. My name’s Harold. I’m 56. I’m the maintenance guy at Ridgeview Estates. I also live here—not in a house, of course, but in a storage room behind the maintenance office. Metal door. One thin cot. A hot plate I’m not supposed to have. Mop

I was sixteen years old when I met a homeless pregnant woman at a community outreach center. I had no idea then that she would change my life forever, or that years later, my husband would uncover something that would break my heart and force me to see my son in a completely new way. I started volunteering at the community outreach center when I was sixteen, mostly because that’s what everyone told you to do if you wanted your college applications to look good. You know how it is