However, one person will always be remembered. Even two years later, her impact on my life was unexpected.
Set the scene for my life at that time. For my circumstances, I lived in a small basement flat in the city for $600 per month.
This flat, with its all-purpose counter as my workstation, workspace, and eating table, was my world at 26. My basic twin bed fit snugly in one area, its metal frame exposed where linens sometimes slipped.
My fold-out table was always filled with unpaid bills, which was scary.
In habit, I hesitated over my mom’s number when I went for my phone, but then reality hit me again. Since my last contact, six months had passed.
I saw the irony. BREATHING. This story started on that unforgettable flight.
“Please, Miss! She needs help!” Frenetic shouts rang down the aisle.
In business class, I was checking routines when a panicked man spoke. An older woman gripping her throat, her face growing frighteningly red, was three seats ahead.
Another passenger exclaimed, “She’s choking!” and stood up.
“I can help, madam. Can you breathe? Requested urgently.
Her head jerked, her eyes widewith dread.
I hugged her torso, hands above her navel, and drove upward. Time after time, nothing. After three attempts, a gasp was heard.
A piece of chicken fell on a man’s newspaper as we felt relief.
After catching her breath, she glanced at me with warm, tearful eyes. I was held tightly as she thanked me.
“Thanks, honey. This is unforgettable. This am Mrs. Peterson, and you saved my life.”
Trials might erase happy recollections. When Mom got sick, everything else faded. I quit flight attendant to help her during her illness.
My automobile, Grandpa’s suburban home, and Mom’s beloved art collection were sold.
“You don’t have to do this, Evie,” Mom said, presenting my resignation letter. “I can manage myself.”
“Like you helped me with pneumonia in third grade? Or my high school arm fracture?” I gently kissed her forehead. Let me help you this time.”
Her favorite watercolor of me as a child sketching birds establishing a nest in our maple tree from the kitchen window was the last to depart.
We found gold online soon after.
An unidentified buyer bid much more than we expected. Mom couldn’t believe our luck.
She died peacefully in the hospital three weeks later, with only equipment beeping.
Time passed like sand between fingertips. I watched automobile headlights cast ephemeral shadows in my basement on Christmas Eve alone.
After losing Mom, I couldn’t handle the pity-laden looks, awkward conversations, and well-meaning but harsh questions about my coping.
A tap on the door startled me.
I cautiously glanced through the door’s peephole to see a man in a suit holding a festive bow-adorned gift box.
“Miss Evie? My delivery is for you.”
I opened the door slightly, keeping the chain secure. “A gift? For me?”
An invitation is included. Trust me, things will clear up.”
Mom’s final painting was in the present, which stole my breath away. I was forever drawn to the kitchen window, painting birds on a sunny morning.
“Wait!” A shout. “Who are you? Why is the painting back?
A man smiled. Your understanding will come. My boss wants to meet you. Do you accept our invitation?
If you’re ready. A automobile awaits.”
A Christmas storybook house with glittering lights and wreaths in every window was the destination.
Mrs. Peterson, from that historic flight two years ago, rose from a luxurious armchair inside.
“I saw your mother’s artwork in a gallery’s online feature,” she said. “When I saw your painting, I had to have it. Something about that bird moment… She pondered. “It resembled my daughter.”
“How did you find me?” Whispering, I asked.
“I have my methods,” she said kindly. “I explained the situation to the hospital to get your address. I wanted to assist you even if I couldn’t help your mother.”
I lost my daughter to cancer last year. She was your age.” She gently caressed the painting frame. I was inspired to help even though it was too late when I saw a mother’s final artwork sold for therapy.
“Join me this Christmas,” she whispered. “No one should be alone on such a day!”
It felt like family again that Christmas. Although my mother’s loss cannot be replaced, Mrs. Peterson’s goodwill may help me rebuild. a home that honored the past and offered hope for the future.
