When my daughter told me she wanted to do something different for Halloween this year, I didn’t think much of it until a stranger showed up at our door the next morning, holding a box that brought me to tears.
I’m Elena. I’m 33, and I live in a small Ohio town that always smells like freshly cut grass or someone grilling, depending on the season. I’ve been a nurse for almost a decade now, working mostly night shifts.
It’s not glamorous, but it’s honest work, and I’m good at it. The pay isn’t great, but it’s just enough to keep the lights on and cover school lunches.
I’ve been a single mom since my daughter, Lily, was two. Her dad decided fatherhood wasn’t for him and left like it was a bad date.
No calls, no birthday cards. Just silence. And honestly, we’re better off without him.
Lily’s seven now.
She’s tiny for her age, with wild brown hair that’s always a bit tangled no matter how much we brush it, and these sparkly hazel eyes that turn strangers into puddles. She has this way of smiling that makes even the grumpiest cashier soften. People always tell me she’s an old soul.
I believe them.
We live in a two-bedroom rental with creaky floors, a porch swing that leans slightly to the right, and a kitchen that smells like cinnamon half the year. It’s not much, but it’s home.
Holidays are my thing. I go out of my way to make them magical for Lily.
We don’t have much, but I can always manage a little glitter and a string of fairy lights.
Halloween is Lily’s favorite. She loves pumpkins, skeletons, and glittery witches.
She usually starts planning her costume six months in advance. At least, I thought she did.
A week before Halloween, I was stirring pasta sauce in our tiny kitchen, humming to some old ’80s playlist. Lily sat at the table, coloring quietly.
She had drawn a big orange pumpkin surrounded by hearts. She was chewing the end of a red crayon like she was deep in thought.
She looked up and said, “Mom, I don’t want to go trick-or-treating this year.”
I paused, spoon mid-air. “What?
But you love trick-or-treating.”
“I do,” she said, still chewing. “But I was thinking…”
She gave me that look, the one where her chin tips up a little and her eyes go all determined. That look always means she’s already made up her mind, and now I’m just being let in on it.
“I want to go to the nursing home instead.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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