My mother was eighty years old when she first invited a homeless young man to dinner.
His name was Ethan.
He was twenty-four, slept behind an abandoned bookstore, and kept all his belongings in a single backpack.
They’d met outside a pharmacy after Mom accidentally dropped her grocery bags.
Other people ignored her scattered purchases.
Ethan stopped and helped gather everything.
From then on, he visited her every Thursday.
He carried heavy shopping bags, repaired the damaged steps on her porch, and patiently listened whenever she talked about my father, who had passed away years earlier.
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