Every morning, my son handed juice to a garbage man he called “Mr. Tomorrow.” I thought he was just some stranger until I discovered a secret that tied him deeply to our family.
I woke up at six sharp every day. No matter what — even on weekends, even when I could sneak in an extra hour of rest. I was alone, with no husband, no one to lean on, carrying everything by myself.
I never met my father. When I was seven, I asked my mom if he had green eyes like mine. She just said, “No,” and slammed the cupboard shut. After that, she never wanted to talk about him. But as I grew up, the old house he left behind was the only thing connecting me to him. And now, it was the only thing I could give my son.
One morning, Jamie sat in my bedroom doorway holding two socks that didn’t match.
“Mom, my socks aren’t holding hands!” he said, his face serious.
I laughed and walked over quickly. “Well, of course not — they’re brother and sister socks. They’re always fighting.”
Jamie scrunched up his nose. “Then let the sister go suffer and the brother watch cartoons!”
He dashed off to grab his backpack. Later, during our quick breakfast, I noticed the cookie box was empty, and the juice carton was nearly gone.
“Jamie, you didn’t take any sweets yesterday without asking, did you?” I asked.
“No, Mom,” he replied quickly.
It was the third time this week I caught something missing. I didn’t say anything, but a small alarm bell was ringing inside me.
I dropped Jamie off at daycare and headed to the supermarket where I worked as a cashier. There, I smiled until my cheeks ached and my feet begged for mercy. Every night I came home with a sore back and a mind counting down the days to payday.
The next morning, I woke earlier than usual. A garbage truck rumbled down our street, shaking me awake. I went downstairs and, through the slightly open kitchen window, I heard Jamie’s voice.
“Good morning, Mr. Tomorrow!” he called out.
Curious, I crept to the window and peeked outside.
Jamie was standing on the sidewalk in his pajamas, holding a cup of juice. In front of him was an elderly man with silver hair, wearing a bright orange safety vest, one hand resting on his garbage cart. He smiled warmly.
“You brought me the best breakfast in town again, kid,” the man said.
Jamie grinned. “Today is apple. Tomorrow will be orange.”
The man chuckled. “Oooh, orange is pure luxury.”
He bent down to take the cup with both hands.
“Thank you, Jamie. You’re the sunshine in my morning,” he said softly.
Then, my son hugged him — just like that. Quick, gentle, full of heart.
Something inside me twisted. This felt like more than just a friendly gesture. It was like they’d done this before — many times — but I was only seeing it now for the first time.
Who was this man? How long had they been meeting like this?
When Jamie came back inside, I was waiting for him in the hallway.
“Jamie… Who was that?” I asked gently.
“He’s my friend. Mr. Tomorrow,” he said. “He’s lonely, so I bring him juice and cookies. Please don’t be mad, Mom!”
I blinked, confused. “Wait… Mr. Tomorrow? Why do you call him that?”
Jamie shrugged, smiling. “Because he always says, ‘See you tomorrow, kid.’ Even if I forget the juice or if it’s raining. He never breaks his promise.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Umm… since he called my drawing a masterpiece! That was… maybe last winter?”
Before I could ask more, I heard wheels scraping on the street. I peeked toward the door and saw the man standing by our gate, looking straight at me. He lifted his hand in a wave, then placed an empty bin near the curb and slowly walked back to his truck. There was something in his eyes — sadness? Longing?
I watched the truck pull away. A strange feeling settled inside me. Whatever tied him to our home hadn’t let go yet.
Then my mom arrived. No warning, just her and three heavy suitcases, and not a single smile on her face. I already knew she was staying longer than I wanted.
Her live-in partner had “turned out stingy, indifferent, and no better than your father, that traitor,” she said over and over. That morning, I heard her complaining from the porch before she even came in.
“Taxis cost too much! And buses — please, those are for pensioners, not women with standards.”
“Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to sound calm.
I led her to the guest room, where I’d placed fresh towels, bought her favorite mint tea, and set a few books by the window.
“The room… well, tolerable,” she sniffed. “But this lemon smell is screaming at me. Are you trying to cleanse my aura or fumigate me?”
I smiled, trying not to show how much her words stung. “It’s a natural spray. You don’t like chemicals, remember?”
She sighed heavily, not done yet.
“What can one expect from someone who still works as a cashier…”
I stayed silent. She pushed past me into the hallway and opened Jamie’s door.
I followed, bracing myself.
“And this! Look at this room. It’s dark as a cave!”
“It’s cozy,” I offered.
“It’s a hazard. How’s Jamie supposed to read here? One sad little bulb. That’s it?”
“I’ll get another lamp.”
“With your education, you should be designing lighting, not living under it.”
Before I could respond, Jamie cut in.
“Grandma, I’ll show you my new book! Let’s read it.”
“Sweetheart, of course. I have all the time in the world…” Mom said, her voice softening just a little.
There was a flicker in her eyes, like Jamie disarmed her just by being himself. He was my wise little grown-up boy.
Every time Mom started criticizing my life — my degree, my haircut, my choices — Jamie stepped in. He held her hand gently, like a little diplomat trying to bring peace.
“Grandma, come see how much my cactus grew!” he said.
Or, “Grandma, I drew you with wings because you look like a fairy.”
Meanwhile, I was so caught up in the chaos of Mom’s visit, her constant complaints, I completely forgot about Mr. Tomorrow — the man who didn’t know that tomorrow 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 just reaching for my robe when I heard footsteps behind me. Mom was already at the window, peering through the curtain. Without a word, she stormed to the front door.
“Mom, wait!” I called, hurrying after her, but she was already on the porch.
“What is this! Good grief…” she muttered, seeing 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 looked startled, his eyes wide.
“Grandma?”
“No, Jamie. Absolutely not!”
Mom marched toward them and stood between Jamie and the man like a wall shutting them apart.
“You have no right to be near him. He’s a child! And you… you’re a dirty, reeking trashman.”
“Mom, stop,” I whispered, cheeks burning.
But she was unstoppable.
“That filthy uniform should’ve been burned years ago! You smell like a dumpster in July!”
The man looked at her calmly, like he’d heard it all before. Then he spoke.
“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? My mother knows his name? She 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 whispered.
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, arms crossed, victorious.
Across the street, a door creaked. Curtains twitched. A woman held up her phone, recording everything.
There I was — my son trembling against me, my mother glaring, and a man I barely knew walking away.
At that moment, I wasn’t sure who he was anymore.
And somewhere between Jamie’s heartbeat and my mother’s silence, a truth I didn’t want was already unfolding.
Jamie stopped reading with Grandma. He stopped asking about breakfast. He just sat quietly by the window, the sparkle in his eyes slowly fading.
Mom calmly sliced an apple as if nothing had happened. I dropped the dish towel on the counter.
“Mom… how could you let that happen?”
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 humiliated him — right there, in front of everyone. Including your grandson.”
“He’s just a janitor. From a life I left behind.”
I stared at her, my hands shaking. “You still don’t get it. Jamie didn’t care what he wore. Neither did I.”
“You say that now. But you would’ve. Eventually. That’s how it starts.”
“Don’t twist this. Just tell me the truth. Who is Leo?”
She turned slowly, her face pale but fierce.
“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 again. Jamie waited at the window in his 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 calls and some searching, I found him.
By noon, as Mom and Jamie sat quietly with a book between them — though Jamie barely turned a page — 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 turned to Jamie.
“Sweetheart, come say hi to your grandpa.”
Leo knelt down, clearly moved.
“I missed you, kid.”
“I missed you more!” Jamie beamed.
Then Mom’s voice cut sharp through the room.
“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 stayed quiet, letting the moment be ours. Jamie threw his arms around him.
“I told you orange juice was for heroes.”
“And you were right.”
That night, the air in our home shifted.
It didn’t feel divided anymore. It felt… real.
Maybe family isn’t about who stayed or who left. Maybe it’s about who’s brave enough to come back — and who finally opens the door.
