David always found himself a window seat on the school bus back home. As always, he opened the window wide and let the afternoon breeze brush across his face as he recollected the game he played that day, moment by moment.

“That was unbelievable, what you did on the field today!” one of his mates had said.

“I think we’ve got a national-level player on our hands, guys. Get your autographs while you can!” another player teased David, patting his back almost a bit too hard.

That was the distant dream — playing for his country and creating history, like all his soccer heroes.

David could almost taste it; the sweet air of victory and pride when his team and he held the golden championship trophy and smiled for the photographs.

David would constantly rehearse what he would say for the cameras and the papers at the end of the match. How he rose from humble beginnings. And how he owed his mother everything he had become.

“Excuse me, may I sit here?”

David was so deep in his daydream that he didn’t realize one of his classmates had asked permission to sit next to him.

The boy sat down next to David, hugged his backpack, and started dreaming his own dream. ‘I want to become the best soccer player in the school. Just like David. I can’t believe I’m sitting next to him!’

The boy was a true fan of David’s game and wouldn’t miss a chance to watch him play. In his mind, David was everything he wanted to be. He wanted to play like him, have tons of friends like him, and even wear those fancy soccer shoes David was wearing.

Guillermo was always shy and found it challenging to make friends. One day, the boy finally found the courage to talk to his hero.

“Hi, David! I’m Guillermo. I’m your biggest fan!”

“Oh? Hi, Guillermo! Thank you.”

There was an awkward silence as David went back to daydreaming.

“I…really like your shoes!” Guillermo blurted the first thing that came to his mind.

“These? These are really old, and the soles have already started to come off. You should see the new shoes I’ll be getting…” David’s eyes lit up, thinking about the dreamy pair of sneakers he had been saving up for.

“Well, they’re perfect! They’re neon orange, and they’ve got unbeatable grip…”

It had been seven months since David had been raising money to buy the pair of sneakers he wanted. This was the first time the 12-year-old wanted to buy something for himself. And he wanted to do it without burdening his mother. He knew how hard his mother worked, struggling to provide for him and his two younger twin sisters.

“Mom, you don’t need to contribute. Tracy and Katie have their birthdays coming up soon, and you need to save up to throw a tea party, remember?”

David saved up enough money. He did it with the help of a short paper route every morning and the savings from the lemonade stand he had put up the last vacation. Until one day, his piggy bank was full, and he finally had enough to bring his dream shoes home.

“Guillermo! I did it! I’m going straight to the store after homework this evening and buying the best sneakers in town. In fact, I’ll come and pick you up, and you can accompany me to the shop. It’s going to be the best feeling ever!”

Guillermo felt genuine happiness for his idol. That’s when the bus suddenly jolted over a pothole, and one of Guillermo’s shoes fell off onto the bus floor.

David was taken aback at the sight of the worn-out, blackened shoe. It was a pair of thin, low-quality summer shoes that had seen too many seasons. There were holes in the sole, the canvas was coming apart, and there was no sign of a lace.

Guillermo let the other shoe fall, giving in to the feeling of shame.

David had tears in his eyes when he looked at his friend, hiding his face in his palms, sobbing quietly but uncontrollably. The two boys didn’t know what to say to each other for the rest of the ride.

“Ah, David! Here to pick up your new pair of soccer shoes? I’ve got them packed and ready right here.”

“Hold on, sir. Could you show me a pair of those in a smaller size?” David said, pointing at a pair of comfortable boots.

Always help the needy whenever you can.

The shop owner, Mr. Manning, was confused. “But the ones I packed are your exact size, Dave.”

“Not for me, for my friend here,” Dave replied.

Guillermo couldn’t believe what he had heard. He couldn’t possibly let David do that.

“No, David, I don’t need—”

Mr. Manning heard this exchange between the boys and felt a warmth of love and affection rise in his chest. He knew exactly what to do.

“Woah, this one looks great on you, friend. And it’s the absolute best we’ve got in this store.”

David was finally satisfied with the pair of boots he had bought for his friend. Guillermo’s shame had turned to overwhelm, gratitude, and pure joy over his unexpected gift.

As the boys left the store and cycled away, Mr. Manning signaled his staff. “Listen, there’s something we need to do right away…”

“David! There’s someone at the door for you! He arrived with an entire truck, actually.” David’s mother couldn’t make heads or tails of the strange visitor, either.

David’s mother leaned in with a crease of suspicion sitting on her brow.

“I know how much you wanted those spiked sneakers, and I’ve seen you selling lemonade and delivering newspapers. And today, I saw you let all that desire go, just so you could help a friend who was in deeper need than you were.”

David lowered his head out of shyness, catching a glimpse of the proud look on his mother’s face from the corner of his eye.

“And I think this kind of kindness and friendship ought to be celebrated in this day and age. So come on! Get on the back of this truck and pick up as many pairs of shoes as you’d like. For you, your mother, and the twins… Don’t worry about the money; this is all on me.”

“Hurry, we’ve still got to get to your friend’s house. There are free shoes for him and his family, too!”

What do we learn from this story?

Always help the needy whenever you can. Although David worked hard to buy new sneakers, he used the money to help Guillermo, who was wearing torn shoes.

An act of kindness can be infectious. The shoe store owner noticed David’s kindness. He was inspired by the boy’s actions and decided to help his and his friend’s family.

Share this story with your friends. It might brighten their day and inspire them.

If you enjoyed this story, you might like this one about a boy who received his favorite sneakers from the thrift shop as a gift on his birthday. He noticed an inscription on it and was shocked to learn about its previous owner.

This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone’s life.

Lora strolled through the bustling mall, the festive chaos around her contrasting sharply with the somber weight in her heart. Shoppers chatted and laughed, their carts brimming with holiday treasures.

Twinkling lights lined every window display, reflecting off glossy ornaments and casting a warm glow.

Familiar Christmas carols played over the loudspeakers, their cheerful tunes feeling almost intrusive to her melancholy.

Sandra walked beside her, holding up decorations and chatting animatedly.

“Oh, Lora, look at this one!” she said, picking up a delicate glass ornament shaped like a snowflake. It caught the light, shimmering like it was dusted with frost.

Each one wore the same jolly expression, and their red suits and fluffy white beards were a painful reminder of John. A wave of sadness rolled over her, and she looked away, pretending to study something else.

Sandra noticed the shift in her friend’s demeanor. She put the ornament back on the shelf and touched Lora’s arm gently.

“You’ve been quiet all afternoon. Are you okay?”

Lora sighed, her shoulders slumping.

She’d be so excited to see him, running down the stairs to catch him by the tree. He made it magical for her. But this year…”

Her voice cracked, and she paused to steady herself.

“This year, he’s not here. Kira keeps asking when Father will come, and I don’t have the heart to tell her.”

Sandra gave Lora’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “You haven’t told her yet?”

“No.” Lora shook her head, her voice trembling.

Sandra frowned thoughtfully, her expression a mix of understanding and concern.

“I get it, Lora. I really do. But you know she’ll have to find out someday. You can’t shield her from the truth forever.”

“I know,” Lora whispered, her eyes welling up with tears she fought to keep back.

“But not this Christmas. I just want her to be happy. Even if it’s only for a little while.”

Sandra wrapped an arm around Lora’s shoulders, pulling her into a gentle hug.

“You’re stronger than you think, you know. And you’re not alone in this. We’re here for you.”

Lora nodded, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile.

“Thanks, Sandra. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

For a moment, the weight on her chest felt a little lighter, but the ache for John lingered, sharper than ever against the backdrop of Christmas cheer.

Lora and Kira worked side by side, carefully unpacking the box of Christmas decorations that had been stored away since last year.

The tree, freshly chosen and standing tall in the corner, seemed to glow in the warm light of the room.

“Mommy, look at this one!” Kira squealed, holding up a small, painted ornament shaped like a snowman. “It’s my favorite!”

Lora chuckled softly, taking the ornament and handing Kira a hook.

“You pick the perfect spot for it,” she said, watching as her daughter stretched onto her tiptoes to reach a branch.

She darted back to the box, grabbing handfuls of shiny ornaments and thrusting them toward Lora.

“Hurry, Mommy! We have to make it beautiful for Santa!”

Lora felt her heartache at Kira’s innocent excitement. She smiled and knelt by her daughter, helping her sort through the decorations.

“It’s already beautiful, sweetie. But you’re right. Santa deserves our best effort.”

“Mommy, put the red one there! No, higher! And the shiny one next to it!”

Finally, Kira pulled out the glittery gold star from the bottom of the box. She held it up triumphantly.

“Now, Mommy, the star! Put it on top!”

Lora took the star and climbed a step stool to place it on the highest branch. When she stepped down, she turned to Kira.

“What do you think? Is it perfect?”

Kira stepped back, her hands on her hips as she studied the tree.

Lora froze, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The warmth she felt moments ago was replaced by a sharp pang of sadness.

“Sweetheart, about Santa…” she began hesitantly.

“I can’t wait to see him!” Kira interrupted, her excitement bubbling over.

“He always eats the cookies I make, and I always catch him by the stairs! He’ll come, right, Mommy?”

Lora bit her lip, her smile faltering. She knelt down and brushed a stray curl from Kira’s forehead.

“Now, let’s add the candy canes.”

How could she explain that John — her husband, Kira’s Santa — wouldn’t be coming this year?

Lora sighed and stood, forcing a smile as she joined Kira by the tree. For now, she decided, she would hold onto this moment of happiness, even if it was bittersweet.

Christmas Eve arrived with a quiet magic filling the house. The string lights cast a soft, golden glow across the living room, reflecting off the ornaments on the Christmas tree.

The air was sweet with the scent of freshly baked cookies, which Kira carefully arranged on a festive plate.

She set it on the hearth, next to a glass of milk, her face glowing with anticipation.

“Now we wait,” Kira whispered, her excitement bubbling over as she grabbed her favorite blanket and snuck behind the staircase. It was her favorite spot for spying on Santa.

Lora stood back, watching her daughter with a mixture of love and guilt. Kira’s absolute belief that Santa would come made the lump in Lora’s throat harder to swallow.

“Kira, sweetheart,” Lora began softly, her voice careful. “Maybe Santa will come later. Why don’t you go to bed and let him surprise you in the morning?”

“No, Mommy!” Kira protested, her little face scrunching with determination. “I always see him when he comes. He has to come.”

Lora felt her resolve falter, tears stinging her eyes. There was no avoiding it now. She gently took Kira’s hand in hers, her own trembling slightly.

“Kira,” she began again, her voice heavy with emotion, “there’s something I need to tell you about Santa and Daddy…”

There, a figure in a red suit knelt down, reaching for a cookie.

“Santa!” Kira squealed, leaping from her hiding spot and flinging herself into his arms. “You came!”

The man in the Santa suit chuckled heartily, his belly shaking. “Oh, you caught me again, little one! Ho ho ho!” he said, his voice rich and warm.

Lora stared, her heart pounding as Sandra appeared in the doorway wearing an elf costume, her face lit with a mischievous grin.

Kira’s laughter rang through the living room, filling the space with a joy Lora hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.

Kira tugged on Santa’s red sleeve, her excitement bubbling over.

“Did you like the cookies? I helped Mommy bake them!” she said proudly.

Santa, Rick in disguise, chuckled warmly and nodded.

“They’re the best cookies I’ve had all year! You must be quite the baker, little one,” he said, his deep voice perfectly mimicking the jolly character.

“And have you been a good girl this year?”

“Oh, yes! The best!” Kira exclaimed, nodding vigorously. She bounced on her toes, her wide eyes filled with wonder.

“Santa, did you see our tree? Isn’t it the prettiest?”

“It’s the most beautiful tree I’ve ever seen,” Santa replied, leaning down with a twinkle in his eye.

Lora stood a few feet away, frozen in place. Her heart swelled with gratitude and emotion as she watched the scene unfold.

“Don’t worry,” Sandra whispered, her voice soft but reassuring. “It’s Rick. We figured Kira didn’t need the truth this year — not yet.”

Lora turned to her friend, her vision blurry with tears. “Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice breaking.

“Thank you for this.”

Sandra gave her a comforting squeeze.

“Lora, you’re not alone. John may be gone, but we’re still here. You have us. We’ll always be here for you, especially when you need us the most.”

Lora knelt, pulling her daughter into a tight hug.

She kissed Kira’s forehead. “It is,” she whispered.

“And you’re the best little girl Santa could ever visit.”

As the evening wore on, Sandra and Rick stayed to share hot cocoa and stories by the tree. For the first time in months, Lora felt a glimmer of peace.

The ache of John’s absence lingered, but the love surrounding her dulled the edges of her pain.

When Sandra and Rick finally left, Lora hugged her friend tightly. “I’ll never forget this,” she said softly.

“Thank you for reminding me I’m not alone.”

Sandra smiled warmly. “That’s what family is for.”

Later, as Lora tucked Kira into bed, she held her daughter’s hand a little longer, watching her drift into a peaceful sleep.

The pain of loss was still there, but so was love — enduring and abundant. Christmas, she thought, was about moments like this.

Tell us what you think about this story, and share it with your friends. It might inspire them and brighten their day.

If you enjoyed this story, read this one: It felt like Chelsea’s boyfriend had changed since they started dating. He used to be romantic and gentle and even wrote her letters. But now, he didn’t show up and left her alone at his friend’s birthday. However, after Chelsea found a letter in his friend’s coat, she realized the hard truth. Read the full story here.

This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone’s life.

My son befriended the one neighbor in our cul-de-sac that most people avoided, even me. At first, I was only mildly concerned, but suddenly, he began arriving home with cash. HE WAS ONLY 7. So I investigated, and soon, the police were at her house.

Yet, I thought even the most reclusive person in our neighborhood was okay.

Let me give you some background: I’m Kayla, a 32-year-old single mom to my seven-year-old son, Eli.

We live in a peaceful little area. It’s a cul-de-sac where everyone has a perfectly manicured lawn and most people nod or wave in passing. We all know almost everyone’s names, too.

My place is cozy and full of little projects that Eli and I work on together, like the vegetable garden out front. A few months ago, we even made a birdfeeder from scratch.

Because of this, I knew my son would grow up to love working on his house and helping others. Which is why what happened next was only a little strange at first.

At the end of our street is a house that I’ve always found a bit unsettling. It’s this old, ivy-covered place, with hedges that have grown wild and oak trees that are far too large now.

It’s the kind of place kids would dare each other to approach for Halloween. Our neighbor, Ms. Eleanor, lives there. She’s way past her 70s and a complete loner, unlike some of our other elderly neighbors. She’s also mysterious, and her curtains are always closed.

I’ve wondered about her life, but honestly, I didn’t care enough to approach her. Still, I shrugged off anyone who even suggested something bad about her. Ms. Eleanor was allowed to live her life as she wanted.

This is where things changed. One day after school, Eli burst through the front door and exclaimed, “Mom! You won’t believe this! Ms. Eleanor asked me to bake cookies with her!”

I blinked while stirring the stew I was making for dinner that day. “Ms. Eleanor? The lady at the end of the street?”

His question threw me off. “Ms. Eleanor… invited you… to her house?”

She didn’t exactly seem like the “baking with kids” type.

But Eli nodded eagerly and said he’d love to learn. To be fair, I was great at cooking, but my baking was a gamble.

So, I shrugged and agreed. “Alright, but remember to be polite and come home before dinner, okay?”

“Thanks, Mom! See ya!” he said and zipped out the door.

Though I smiled at the idea that my son had been nice to the one person in the neighborhood who seemed to have no one, it was a little troubling. Ms. Eleanor was a stranger to me, after all.

I’d lived in the area since my son was one, and I had never talked to her. But she was an old woman; what harm could she really do?

That evening, Eli came home with a plate of cookies. “Look! Ms. Eleanor made me make these on my own. I had to look at the clock by the oven and everything!” he said proudly.

They were slightly burnt, but I could tell he was thrilled. “Wow, they look great, honey! Did you have fun?”

“Yeah! Her kitchen is like a movie! It’s all old stuff! And she said she can make everything I like.”

I was raising a good kid! I thought, and my earlier worries disappeared.

***

Eli continued visiting Ms. Eleanor and returned with something new from her house daily. He was learning so much, and he seemed so happy. Maybe he’ll grow up to become a pastry chef.

I was daydreaming of my son on “Cake Boss,” when he arrived, waving an envelope in his hand. “Look, Mom! Ms. Eleanor is paying me!”

“What do you mean paying you?”

“She said that since she’s eating, too, I deserve some money,” Eli explained, smiling at the bill.

“That’s… nice of her, I guess. But honey, I don’t know. She’s paying for all the ingredients and teaching you. Did you do any chores for her, or something?”

He shook his head. “No, I just stir,” he said and scratched his head. “Oh! I also help her dry everything after she washes the dishes. It’s hard because she doesn’t have a washing machine…”

The following week, though, things got weirder. Eli came home with another envelope, and there was $20 inside.

I couldn’t let that go this time. Something was wrong. An old, most likely retired woman had to be on a fixed income. Why was she paying him? What was happening over there?

So, I sat down with him and kept my voice calm. “Eli, honey, I really need you to tell me what’s going on with Ms. Eleanor. Why does she keep giving you money? What’s happening at her house?”

“Maybe, but she’s already spending money on ingredients and helping you. Taking more from her is not right. Are you sure nothing else but baking is happening over there? You can tell me.”

“No, Mom! She just… she just likes baking with me,” he said but looked away. He began to fidget like he always did when he was hiding something.

“Eli…” I warned.

“Okay… we’re doing another thing. But it’s a surprise. It’s good, but I can’t tell you.”

“No, Eli. You can’t hide things from your mother,” I said. I was getting stern. “I don’t think you should be going there anymore until I talk to her.”

I sighed and nodded, but I wasn’t letting it go.

***

I stewed over this situation while Eli was at school the next day. And I admit, my mind went to strange places.

What if Ms. Eleanor wasn’t just being “nice?” What if she had different intentions?

But she scoffed after I explained everything. “Kayla, please. Ms. Eleanor is not some witch like the kids say. Be glad you have a son who enjoys being around older people. Send him my way if he wants to do chores around my house.”

That wasn’t helpful. I had to find what was truly going on. But I didn’t want to let my son down, so I made a plan.

When Eli arrived home from school, I told him I would drop him off at Ms. Eleanor’s house. He was only confused but shrugged as we walked over.

Instead of going back to my home, I circled the house. The closed curtains were a problem, but at the back, I found a slight opening where I could peek inside. What I saw made my jaw drop.

Eli was there, but he and Ms. Eleanor weren’t in the kitchen. They were at a table, and I could see some papers, perhaps photographs, set in a circle on top.

And Ms. Eleanor was there, too, looking over his shoulder and giving him directions. Something about this scene gave me goosebumps. Was it some kind of ritual?

I couldn’t remain hidden any longer, so I walked to the back door and was lucky to find it unlocked. I burst in, ready to defend my baby.

“What on earth is going on here?” I blurted, stomping to them.

Ms. Eleanor’s face turned ghostly pale. “Kayla, I… I didn’t expect you…”

I didn’t even pay attention to her. I confirmed that the papers on the table were photographs, but my eyes widened in horror at what they depicted: me and Eli, all around town.

Some photos were direct from my social media, but others were candid — at neighborhood potlucks and around town. A few were photos of just him, and I was horrified.

God, what did I let my son walk into?

I didn’t have time to figure that out, though. I had to take action immediately. “I’m calling the police!”

“No!” Ms. Eleanor pleaded, but I was already dialing.

Eli’s eyes were huge, and his face was red with embarrassment. But I didn’t care. I was his mother, and I knew better.

I was outside with my son when the police arrived. Two officers got out of the car, and I explained what I knew, which wasn’t much and probably confused them. Still, they took my concerns seriously as they entered Ms. Eleanor’s house.

“Mom,” Eli tried to speak for the millionth time.

“Hush, hon,” I said. “I know you think there’s nothing wrong. But there is.”

We waited several minutes in silence before one of the officers came out. She had a tender smile, which I didn’t understand, and told me to go inside because I needed to hear the old woman’s explanation.

“Kayla, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Ms. Eleanor started when I stepped inside.

“Really? Well, maybe don’t encourage my son to hide things from me as a ‘surprise,'” I retorted, and the cop gave me an exasperated look.

Ms. Eleanor’s hands shook as she reached for one of the photos on the table. “I know I should’ve explained sooner, but… I just didn’t know how,” she said in a solemn voice.

The officer gave her a gentle nod, and I felt my anger simmering, but I bit my tongue, waiting for her to keep speaking.

All the breath left my lungs. But I couldn’t be pacified so easily. “I-I’m so-sorry for your loss, but that doesn’t explain the money and the photos of us.”

She looked down, nodding. “Eli talked about your birthday coming soon, and one of the best gifts I ever received was a scrapbook. He loved that idea. He gathered all those photos from the computer, I think, and some neighbors. I’ve been giving him money to get them printed at his school’s library.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise, and I also took photos from your private box,” Eli answered, shrugging. “Ms. Eleanor said I should tell you the money was payment for the baking help.”

“That was wrong of me,” Ms. Eleanor added. “The truth would’ve been better. But… your boy has been a light in my life these past few weeks after years of not being able to be around people. I was just trying to help him as much as he’s helped me. It was nice to have a secret between us like I used to with my grandson.”

The police officers left after I apologized profusely. I took a deep breath once it was just the three of us.

“I’m sorry for ruining the surprise, Eli,” I said to my son, who I knew had already forgiven me. But then, I looked at the older woman. “I’m sorry that I even thought anything bad about you. Maybe we can finish the scrapbook together. As an apology?”

Ms. Eleanor’s face lit up, and her eyes got watery. “I’d love that.”

And just like that, everything was right in my world again. But even better, we witnessed Ms. Eleanor opening up to the world soon enough.

Neighborhood potlucks were a little too much for her, but she sent some food with me. Honestly, she might never be the most social person, but this was more than enough.

My son helped her with that, and that kind of gesture is the mark of a truly fantastic person.

Here’s another story: I hired the same Santa actor to come to our house for three years straight. But it was only last Christmas Eve that I stumbled upon him in the bathroom and discovered why he was so dedicated to us… actually, to my son.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.