The dust of the country road swirled around Martin’s worn sandals as he trudged home, his stomach growling with the familiar pangs of hunger. He was a wisp of a boy, barely ten years old, with eyes that held the weight of too many hardships. His mother, frail and perpetually ill, relied on him for everything, from gathering firewood to earning meager coins from odd jobs.
As he rounded a bend, a sleek, black automobile roared past, kicking up a cloud of dust that stung his eyes. He coughed, waving his hand to clear the air, and then noticed the car had stopped further down the road. It was angled awkwardly, half on the pavement, half in the ditch. A figure slumped inside.
Curiosity piqued, Martin ran towards the car. Inside, a man, dressed in fine clothes, was choking, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. He was clutching his throat, his eyes wide with panic. Martin recognized him; it was Sylvester Thorne, the wealthy landowner whose grand estate loomed over their humble village.
Without hesitation, Martin grabbed a rock from the roadside and smashed the car window. Glass shattered everywhere as he reached in to unlock the door. “Stand back!” he shouted, pulling Sylvester out onto the pavement.
Sylvester was gasping, his hands still clutching his throat. Martin knew he had to act quickly. He remembered a trick he’d seen his father use once, a desperate measure. With all his might, Martin delivered several sharp blows to Sylvester’s back. Suddenly, a chunk of apple flew from Sylvester’s mouth, and he gasped for air, his lungs finally filling with air.
The rich man looked at the boy with tears in his eyes and kept thanking him for saving his life, his voice hoarse. “You… you saved my life, boy. I… I owe you everything.”
Martin, flustered by the man’s gratitude, simply nodded. “Just glad you’re alright, sir.” And then, he turned and walked away, his stomach still growling, his mind already turning to the task of finding something for his mother to eat.
The next morning, Martin was jolted awake by his sister, Lily’s, excited screams. “Marty! Marty! Come quick!”
He rushed outside, his mother calling after them in confusion, her voice weak but laced with concern. There, on their doorstep, sat a large, brown bag. It was tied with a silken ribbon, a stark contrast to the rough, worn wood of their porch.
Lily, her eyes wide with wonder, tugged at the ribbon. Martin cautiously untied it, and the contents spilled out: a loaf of fresh bread, a basket of plump, red apples, a jar of honey, and a small pouch filled with coins. At the bottom of the bag, a folded note lay nestled amongst the food.
Martin unfolded it, his eyes scanning the elegant script. “To Martin, for your bravery and kindness. From Sylvester Thorne.”
His mother, her face etched with a mixture of relief and astonishment, reached for the bread, her fingers trembling. “It’s from Mr. Thorne,” Martin said, his voice hushed. “He remembered.”
The food was a godsend. They hadn’t had a proper meal in days. The coins, though few, were enough to buy medicine for his mother and some seeds for their small garden. But it was more than just the material goods. It was the knowledge that someone, especially someone as powerful as Sylvester Thorne, had seen their plight and cared.
News of Martin’s heroism spread through the village like wildfire. People who had once turned a blind eye to their poverty now offered smiles and words of encouragement. Even the gruff baker, who had always refused them credit, gave them a warm loaf of bread and a wink.
Sylvester Thorne, true to his word, didn’t forget Martin. He visited their small cottage, his presence filling the cramped space with an air of grandeur. He spoke to Martin’s mother, his voice gentle and respectful. He offered to pay for her medical treatment and to send Martin to school.
Martin, overwhelmed by the man’s generosity, looked at his mother, her eyes shining with hope. She nodded, her lips forming a silent “yes.”
Life changed for Martin and his family. His mother’s health improved, and he excelled in school, his sharp mind eager to learn. He never forgot the day he saved Sylvester Thorne, nor the kindness that followed. He understood that even in the midst of hardship, a single act of courage and compassion could change everything. And Sylvester Thorne, in return, learned that true wealth wasn’t measured in possessions, but in the lives he touched and the gratitude he received.
My Son Stays Quiet as His Wife Insults Me — But He Soon Teaches Her a Lesson in Front of Guests
Kate cannot wait to spend the holidays with her son and his wife — it’s her first Christmas with the family. But when Liz criticizes her cooking, and John chooses silence over defending his mother, will the holidays be ruined?
I was always the feeder — especially after I got married, it was always me cooking for every family dinner and during the major holidays, like Christmas. But after Oliver, my husband, passed, I lost hold of that part of me.
Now, I barely cook, just enough to keep myself going, and barely that.
Except during the holidays because this is when my son, John, comes for his annual roast dinner. And then, it’s time for me to shine. But this year, things got very heated in the kitchen.
This was the first year with Liz, John’s wife, joining us. When they were dating, she always went home to her parents instead of visiting us. Which, I’ll admit, is fair because being with your family is everything during the holidays. Anyway, I was intrigued to see how Liz would mix with the rest of our family for the day.
Person chopping vegetables | Source: Unsplash
I got up early and began the Christmas meal, knowing that it would be an early dinner with many side dishes and different desserts to follow. I made the usual Christmas dinner that we’ve done for years — chicken, with roasted potatoes and gravy being the main attraction, but with lots of little dishes. Things that John loved.
But Liz? Oh, she definitely wasn’t a fan.
I was putting the final touches on the chicken when Liz strolled into the kitchen, cell phone in hand, eyeing my cooking. She looked around the kitchen with an expression that looked like she had smelt something terrible. I tried to ignore her because I was already sweating away.
Roast chicken on plates | Source: Pexels
Then, she hit me with a line that slammed through me. “Hey, Kate,” she said, “maybe we should order food. Not everyone wants what you’ve cooked. I don’t know if everyone enjoys your cooking, either. Every aspect of Christmas is supposed to be enjoyed by everyone. They should enjoy the food, too!”
I was completely blindsided by her words.
I saw John leaning against the archway, nibbling on a carrot. He altogether avoided my gaze, looking over me and out the window across the room. I held back my tears and bit my lip.
Family get together | Source: Pexels
The guests were almost all present, sitting all over the house, and I didn’t want to put a damper on the dinner, even if Liz had hurt me. Dinner rolled around, and the table groaned beneath the weight of the food. My guests, John included, were digging in and singing praises for the food I had been cooking for most of the day.
“The food’s great, right? Everyone’s enjoying it?” John asked the table.
His uncle laughed and helped himself to another serving of roasted potatoes. “Why wouldn’t we enjoy my sister’s food?” my brother said.
“Because Liz said that the dinner might be ruined by Mom’s dishes. She wanted us to order in.”
“Nonsense!” my brother exclaimed, drowning his potatoes in gravy.
Roasted potatoes | Source: Pexels
John looked at me and smiled. Which was when I realized that my sweet boy’s silence wasn’t meant to hurt me. No. He was trying to bide his time until he could teach Liz a lesson and embarrass her in front of our family.
Liz turned red from his comment as everyone stared at her. I’ll admit that I felt bad for her. It was her first Christmas with us, and already, it wasn’t looking promising.
Later on, when I was in the kitchen again, packing the dishwasher and emptying dishes of food, Liz came in.
“Kate, I’m sorry,” my daughter-in-law said. “I was so wrong to do what I did. I am sorry, please understand.”
“Understand what?” I asked her.
I did feel bad, yes. But I was still hurt.
Loaded dishwasher | Source: Pexels
“I only said that because John loves your food. He always talks about how you make all these special things for him. I can’t make a basic mac and cheese without him saying yours is better. I looked at the food, smelt all the delicious smells from this kitchen, and panicked.”
“Liz, you should know that a boy and his mother’s food is a relationship in and of itself,” I laughed, trying to diffuse the tension. “I can teach you how to cook just like me. My mother taught me everything I know.”
“Really?” she asked. “Even after I’ve been so horrible?”
“Yes,” I said with a softening smile.
Then, I led her to the Christmas tree, ready to give Liz her present.
I still think the whole thing hurts me, but I’m grateful she didn’t say what she said for a nasty reason. Liz felt threatened by John’s relationship with my food instead of fostering a relationship with Liz’s cooking.
But I can teach her.
Christmas present wrapped with red thread | Source: Pexels
If the same thing had happened to you, what would you have done? Would you have been silent until the truth came out, like me? Or would you have retaliated immediately?
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