After losing my husband and daughter in a horrific crash—so severe I was never allowed to see their bodies—it was just me and my seven-year-old son, Sam. He hasn’t truly spoken since the funeral. I check the locks three times a night, terrified of losing him too. Grief made me wary of everyone.
Six months ago, a quiet elderly man began sweeping our block after the old caretaker retired. The HOA said his name was Mr. Ben. He had a thick white beard, a bent posture, and hummed old country songs that reminded me of my husband.
Sam noticed him first, writing on his tablet, “He looks like Santa.”
One morning, I finally introduced myself. Mr. Ben looked up with soft blue eyes and a fragile, raspy voice.
I didn’t know then that this gentle presence slowly stepping into our lives would change everything.