The cafeteria at Lincoln High in Chicago was buzzing like a beehive that morning. The air smelled of toasted bagels and strong coffee, mixed with the hum of chatter and laughter. Students pushed past one another, grabbed breakfast trays, joked loudly, and jostled to find a seat before class. It was chaos—the usual kind. Marcus Johnson, sixteen, weaved his way through the crowd. He had just moved from Atlanta and was staying with his aunt because his mother’s new nursing job kept her traveling all the time. He was tall,

I thought the worst thing my mother-in-law ever did was sneak a turkey leg into her purse on Thanksgiving. This year? She walked into my house in stilettos, strutted straight past my dining room, and walked out with my entire Thanksgiving dinner—and somehow, somehow, she still managed to blame me for what happened next. I am the kind of person who waits for Thanksgiving the way kids wait for Christmas. I count down the days. I get butterflies in my stomach. I plan, I prep, I dream. Every year, the

Amanda had spent years quietly leaving handmade clothes on the doorstep of St. Catherine’s Orphanage. She never sought recognition. She didn’t need it. The act itself—slipping a sweater here, a scarf there—was enough to fill her heart. But the morning she opened her door to find two boxes waiting for her, her heart skipped a beat. Who had found her? And what could possibly be inside after all this time? At seventy-three, Amanda’s life was simple, almost lonely. She lived in a small one-bedroom apartment on the edge of town,