The chill of the evening air bit at my skin as I first noticed them—a woman and a small girl huddled on a piece of cardboard outside an old corner shop in the heart of Manchester.
The woman looked exhausted, her arms wrapped tightly around the child as if shielding her from the cutting wind. The girl, no older than five or six, clutched a battered teddy bear missing an eye to her chest. In front of them sat an empty plastic cup with just a couple of coins inside.
I’d just finished grocery shopping, but something about them made me stop. My chest tightened with pity. After a moment’s hesitation, I stepped closer.
“Good evening,” I said quietly. “Would you like something to eat? I’ve got food in my bag.”
The woman lifted her gaze. Tired eyes studied me, wary but hopeful.
“That would be very kind,” she murmured.
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 held my attention. She didn’t reach for the food. Instead, her big, curious eyes fixed on me. Then, in a small voice, she asked:
“Are you rich?”
The question caught me off guard. I glanced down at my clothes—just jeans, a jumper, nothing special.
“Not really,” I admitted, taken aback. “Why do you ask?”
She pointed at my shopping bag.
“You bought all that without even thinking.”
I froze, unsure how to respond. Her words, so simple and honest, struck me like a blow. Before I could reply, she added:
“Mum says we always have to think before we buy anything. If we take food, we might not have enough for the bus. And if we take the bus, we might not eat today.”
My chest tightened like a vice. The girl’s mother sighed softly, smoothing her hair.
“She’s too clever for her age,” the woman said with a sad smile.
I crouched down to meet the girl’s eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Emily,” she said, offering a shy smile.
I smiled back.
“Emily, do you like satsumas?”
Her face lit up.
“Love them!”
I dug a satsuma from my bag and handed it to her. She took it carefully, as if it were something precious.
“Mum used to make satsuma tea,” Emily said proudly. “When we had a kitchen.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“That sounds lovely,” I managed.
Emily’s mother shifted.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be pushy, but… if you know of anywhere—a shelter or something—it’s hard finding somewhere safe to sleep.”
I nodded immediately.
“I’ll look.”
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 said. “They’ve got room, and they serve dinner.”
Relief washed over her face, her shoulders sagging as if a weight had lifted.
“Thank you. Really, thank you.”
“I can drive you, if you’d like.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“That would be a big help.”
We gathered their few belongings—a worn backpack and a couple of carrier bags—and walked to my car. On the way, Emily chattered excitedly about what she’d cook when they had a kitchen again.
“Pasta with cheese, pancakes, spaghetti, and Mum’s satsuma tea!”
Her mother smiled sadly.
“One day, love.”
At the shelter, the staff welcomed them warmly. Before going inside, Emily turned to me, clutching the satsuma to her chest.
“I’ll save it,” she said firmly. “For when we have a kitchen.”
Tears pricked my eyes, but I nodded.
“That’s a brilliant idea, Emily.”
Driving home, I couldn’t shake her words. To me, a satsuma was just a fruit I bought without a second thought. To Emily, it was hope—a promise of better days. And with all my heart, I wished that one day, she’d brew her satsuma tea in a home of her own.
