It was a chilly evening when I spotted them—a woman and a little girl perched on a piece of cardboard outside an old corner shop in the heart of Manchester.
The woman looked worn out, her arms wrapped tightly around the child as if shielding her from the biting wind. The girl, no older than five or six, clutched a tatty stuffed bunny with one missing eye. An empty plastic cup sat in front of them, holding only a few lonely coins.
I’d just bought my groceries, but something about them made me stop dead. My chest tightened with pity. After a moment’s hesitation, I walked over.
“Evening,” I said softly. “Fancy a bite? I’ve got some food here.”
The woman looked up, her tired eyes sizing me up with cautious suspicion.
“That’d be lovely,” she murmured, barely above a whisper.
I pulled out a sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of juice from my bag. She took them gratefully, but it was the girl who caught my eye. She didn’t reach for the food. Instead, her big, curious eyes studied me before she piped up in a tiny voice:
“Are you rich?”
The question threw me. I glanced down at my outfit—just jeans and a jumper, nothing fancy.
“Not really,” I admitted, caught off guard. “Why d’you ask?”
She pointed at my shopping bag.
“You bought all that without even thinking.”
My breath hitched. Her words, so simple and blunt, cut straight through me. Before I could reply, she added:
“Mum says we always gotta think before we spend. If we get food, there might not be enough for the bus. And if we take the bus, we might not eat today.”
It felt like a punch to the gut. The girl’s mother sighed quietly, running a hand over her daughter’s hair.
“She’s too clever for her own good,” the woman said with a bitter smile.
I crouched down to the girl’s level.
“What’s your name?”
“Lily,” she said, grinning a little.
I grinned back.
“Lily, d’you like satsumas?”
Her face lit up.
“Love ’em!”
I fished one out of my bag and handed it over. She took it as gently as if it were made of gold.
“Mum made tea with satsumas once,” Lily announced proudly. “When we had a proper kitchen.”
I swallowed hard, fighting to keep my voice steady.
“Sounds proper nice,” I managed.
Lily’s mum shifted awkwardly.
“Sorry to be a bother, but… d’you know anywhere we could stay? Somewhere safe?”
I nodded straight away.
“I’ll sort something.”
Pulling out my phone, I made a few calls until I found a shelter nearby with space for families.
“There’s a place ten minutes from here,” I told her. “They’ve got beds, and they do dinner too.”
The woman exhaled, shoulders sinking as if a weight had lifted.
“Thank you. Seriously—thank you.”
“I can give you a lift if you like.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“That’d be a lifesaver.”
We gathered their things—a scuffed backpack and a couple of carrier bags—and headed to my car. On the drive, Lily chattered away about what she’d cook when they had a kitchen again.
“Pasta with cheese, pancakes, spaghetti—and Mum’s satsuma tea!”
Her mum gave a sad smile.
“One day, love.”
At the shelter, the staff welcomed them warmly. Before going inside, Lily turned to me, clutching her satsuma tight.
“I’m gonna save this,” she declared. “For our kitchen.”
My throat ached, but I kept it together and nodded.
“Good plan, Lily.”
Driving home, her words stuck with me. To me, a satsuma was just a thing I picked up without a second thought. To Lily, it was hope—a promise of better days. And with all my heart, I hoped one day she’d get to make that satsuma tea in a home of her own.
