Every morning, my son handed juice to a garbage man he called “Mr. Tomorrow.” At first, I thought this man was just some stranger, but then I discovered a secret that connected him deeply to our family.
I woke up at six every day. Always six, no matter if it was a weekday or weekend. Even when I could have slept in just a little longer, I didn’t. I was alone—no husband, no one to help. I had to keep everything together on my own.
I had never met my father. When I was seven, I asked my mom if he had green eyes like mine. She snapped, “No,” and slammed the cupboard shut. She never wanted me to talk about him. But as I grew up, the only thing I had from him was the old house he left behind. And that house was the only thing I could pass down to my son.
That morning, Jamie was sitting at my bedroom door, holding two socks that didn’t match.
“Mom, my socks aren’t holding hands!” he said, a little frustrated.
I laughed and went over to him.
“Well, of course not—they’re brother and sister. They’re always fighting,” I joked.
Jamie frowned and declared, “Then let the sister go suffer, and the brother watch cartoons!”
He ran off to get his backpack. Later, over a quick breakfast, I noticed something strange. The cookie box was empty. And there was barely any juice left in the fridge.
“Huh… Jamie, you didn’t take any sweets yesterday without asking, did you?” I asked carefully.
“No, Mom,” he said quickly.
It was the third time that week something like that happened. I didn’t say anything, but a small voice inside me grew suspicious.
After dropping Jamie off at daycare, I went to work as a cashier at the supermarket. I smiled through the long hours, even when my feet ached and my back screamed in pain by the end of the day. Every night, I came home tired and counting the days until payday.
The next morning, I woke earlier than usual because the rumble of the garbage truck shook me awake. I went downstairs and, through the slightly open kitchen window, I heard Jamie’s voice.
“Good morning, Mr. Tomorrow!”
I peeked outside quietly.
Jamie stood on the sidewalk, still in his pajamas, holding a cup of juice. In front of him was an elderly man with silver hair and an orange reflective vest, resting one hand on his garbage cart. The man smiled warmly.
“You’ve brought me the best breakfast in town again, kid,” he said.
Jamie beamed proudly. “Today is apple. Tomorrow will be orange.”
The man bent slightly, took the cup with both hands, and said, “Oooh, orange is pure luxury.”
“Thank you, Jamie. You’re the sunshine in my morning,” he added.
Then, to my surprise, Jamie hugged him—just like that. A quick, gentle, and heartfelt hug.
Something inside me twisted. This didn’t feel like the first time they had hugged. It felt like I was just seeing something that had been happening for a while—something I didn’t know about.
Who was this man? How long had they been talking like this?
When Jamie came inside, I was already waiting in the hallway.
“Jamie… who was that?” I asked.
“He’s my friend. Mr. Tomorrow. He’s lonely, so I bring him juice and cookies. Please don’t be mad, Mom!” he said, looking up at me with big eyes.
I blinked. “Wait… Mr. Tomorrow? Why do you call him that?”
Jamie shrugged and smiled. “Because he always says, ‘See you tomorrow, kid.’ Even when I forget the juice or when it rains. He never breaks his promise.”
“How long have you been talking to him?” I pressed.
“Umm… since he called my drawing a masterpiece! That was… like… winter, maybe?” Jamie answered.
Before I could ask more, I heard the sound of wheels scraping on the road. I turned toward the door and saw the man standing by the gate, looking right at me. He lifted his hand in a wave, placed the empty bin near the curb, and slowly walked back to his truck.
There was something in his eyes—a mix of sadness and longing, maybe?
I looked again, but the truck was already gone. I had a strange feeling.
Whatever connected him to our home wasn’t over yet.
Without warning, my mom arrived, dragging three suitcases and wearing a face that didn’t smile once. I already knew she was going to stay longer than either of us wanted.
Her live-in partner had “turned out to be stingy, indifferent, and no better than your father, that traitor,” she said bitterly as soon as she stepped onto the porch.
“Taxis are too expensive! And buses—please! They’re for pensioners, not for a woman with standards,” she complained loudly.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to stay calm.
I led her to the guest room, where I had laid out fresh towels, her favorite mint tea, and a few books by the window.
She sniffed the air. “The room… tolerable. But this lemon smell? Are you trying to cleanse my aura or fumigate me?”
I clenched my jaw but smiled. “It’s a natural spray. You don’t like chemicals, remember?”
She sighed dramatically but didn’t stop there.
“But what can one expect from someone who still works as a cashier…” she said, cutting through the silence.
I said nothing. She marched past me toward the hallway and pushed open Jamie’s door. I followed, bracing myself.
“And this! Look at this room! It’s dark as a cave!”
“It’s cozy,” I said softly.
“It’s a hazard! How is Jamie supposed to read in here? One sad little bulb—that’s it?”
“I’ll add another lamp.”
“With your education, you should be designing lighting, not living under it.”
Before I could answer, Jamie jumped in.
“Grandma, I’ll show you my new book! Let’s go read it.”
“Sweetheart, of course. I have all the time in the world…” Mom said, her voice softer, like Jamie had disarmed her with his innocence.
That was my son—wise beyond his years.
Every time Mom started another lecture—about my degree, my haircut, my life—Jamie stepped in. He held her hand like a little diplomat, guiding her toward peace.
“Grandma, come see how much my cactus grew!” he said, or, “Grandma, I drew you with wings, because you look like a fairy.”
While I was caught up in the chaos of Mom’s visit, I completely forgot about Mr. Tomorrow. The man didn’t yet know that the next morning, it wouldn’t just be Jamie waiting for him.
The next morning, I woke to the creak of the front door. Jamie had slipped out again with a glass of juice. I was reaching for my robe when I heard footsteps behind me. Mom was already at the window, peeking through the curtain.
Without a word, she stormed to the front door.
“Mom, wait!” I called, hurrying after her.
She stepped out onto the porch and muttered, “What is this! Good grief…” when she saw Jamie hugging Mr. Tomorrow.
The man was about to leave when Mom’s voice cut through the morning air like a sharp knife.
“Don’t you touch my grandson!”
Jamie turned, startled, looking up at her wide-eyed.
“Grandma?”
“No, Jamie. Absolutely not!” Mom snapped.
She stood between Jamie and the man like a gate slamming shut.
“You have no right to be near him! He’s a child! And you… you’re a dirty, reeking trashman.”
“Mom, stop…” I whispered, feeling heat rush to my cheeks.
But she didn’t stop.
“That filthy uniform should have been burned years ago! You smell like a dumpster in July!”
The man looked at her calmly, like someone who had heard it all before. Then, he spoke quietly but firmly.
“You haven’t changed, Margot.”
Mom’s face went pale.
“You don’t get to call me that,” she hissed.
“And you don’t get to erase the past like it never happened.”
“Shut up, Leo! Get out of here!”
Leo? She said Leo.
My mother knows him.
My mother… knows him.
Leo turned to Jamie, then to me.
“I never touched your boy. He came to me. Every morning. Brought juice. Told me stories. And now I see, he is not a stranger to me.”
“Don’t you dare!” Mom nearly lost her balance. “Don’t you even suggest—”
I stood frozen.
“What do you mean?” I asked, voice trembling.
But Leo was already turning back to his truck.
“We’ll talk another time. When the air on this porch isn’t so poisonous.”
And just like that, he walked away. Jamie tried to run after him, but I held him tight.
“You can’t, sweetheart…”
“But he didn’t even drink his juice…”
I pulled him close. Mom stood on the steps, hands on hips, like she had won.
Across the street, a door creaked. Curtains twitched. A woman held up her phone, recording everything.
There I stood—my son trembling against me, my mother burning holes in the air with her stare, and a man I barely knew walking away.
In that moment, I didn’t recognize him anymore.
And somewhere between Jamie’s heartbeat and my mother’s silence, a truth I never asked for began to unravel.
Jamie stopped reading with Grandma. He stopped asking about breakfast. He just sat by the window, quiet. The sparkle in his eyes slowly faded.
Mom sliced an apple calmly as if nothing had happened. I dropped the dishtowel on the counter.
“Mom… how could you let that happen?” I asked.
She didn’t look up. “What are you talking about?”
“You scared him away.”
“He had no business being near your son.”
“My son adored him. And you… you humiliated him—in front of everyone. Including your grandson.”
“He’s just a janitor. From a life I left behind.”
I stared at her, hands trembling. “You still don’t get it. Jamie didn’t care what he wore. Neither did I.”
“You say that now. But you would have. Eventually. That’s how it starts.”
“Don’t twist this. Just tell me the truth. Who is Leo?”
She turned slowly, face pale but proud.
“He’s your father.”
The room grew still. I swallowed hard.
“You told me he left us.”
“He did. He chose that job over me. Over us. I begged him to quit. To aim higher. But he said it made him feel useful—like he was keeping the world clean.”
Her voice cracked.
“And when I saw him standing there with Jamie… I felt like I was back at that same choice again.”
“Oh, Mom. You pushed him away then. And you did it again now.”
The next morning, the garbage truck came. Jamie waited by the window in pajamas, juice in hand.
But it wasn’t Leo.
The morning after, same routine. Different man.
And again. And again.
Each time, Jamie waited a little longer. Said a little less.
So I decided to act.
After a few phone calls and little searching, I found him.
By noon, as Mom and Jamie sat quietly with a book between them—though Jamie barely turned the pages—I walked in.
“Jamie, sweetheart, come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Leo stepped inside. Jamie jumped up.
“Mr. Tomorrow! I knew you’d come!”
I smiled and said gently, “Sweetheart, come say hi to your grandpa.”
Leo knelt down, eyes full of emotion.
“I missed you, kid.”
“I missed you more!” Jamie shouted.
Then came Mom’s voice, sharp as ever.
“What is he doing here?!”
I stepped forward before Leo could speak.
“He’s here because I invited him. Because he belongs here.”
“He is not family.”
“Yes, he is. He’s more family than you’ve allowed anyone to be in years.”
“Like father, like daughter. Both brilliant. Both wasting your lives in uniforms.”
“Mom, happiness isn’t stitched into a job title. I love what I do. It’s simple. But it’s mine.”
Leo stood quietly, letting the moment belong to us. Jamie threw his arms around him.
“I told you orange juice was for heroes.”
“And you were right.”
That night, something in our home shifted.
It didn’t feel broken or divided anymore. It felt… real.
Maybe family isn’t about who stayed or who left. Maybe it’s about who’s brave enough to return—and who finally chooses to open the door.
