Every Christmas Eve, my mother kept a tradition that never appeared in photos or holiday cards. She cooked a warm, comforting dinner, filling our small apartment with the smell of roasted meat, buttered potatoes, and fresh cornbread. One plate, though, was always wrapped in foil and tucked into a grocery bag. When I finally asked who it was for, she said simply, “Someone who needs it.” That someone was Eli, a quiet young man who spent his nights in the corner of our local laundromat. She never questioned him or spoke with pity—only knelt beside him, offered the meal, and smiled. Her kindness was never about charity, but about dignity.