It was a chilly evening when I spotted them—a woman and a little girl huddled on a piece of cardboard outside an old grocery shop in the heart of Manchester. The woman looked exhausted, 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 scruffy stuffed bunny with one missing eye to her chest. In front of them sat an empty plastic cup with just a couple of coins inside.
I’d just finished buying groceries, but something about them made me stop. My chest ached with pity. After a moment’s hesitation, I walked over.
“Evening,” I said softly. “Fancy something to eat? I’ve got a few bits in my bag.”
The woman looked up, her tired eyes studying me warily.
“That’d be lovely,” she muttered, 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 little girl who caught my attention. She didn’t reach for the food. Instead, her big, curious eyes fixed on me like she was figuring me out. Then, in a tiny voice, she asked,
“Are you rich?”
The question threw me. I glanced down at my clothes—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.”
I froze, lost for words. Something about how blunt and honest she was cut right through me. Before I could reply, she went on,
“Mum says we always have to think before we buy anything. If we get food, we might not have enough for the bus. And if we take the bus, we might not eat today.”
My chest tightened. The girl’s mother sighed quietly, running a hand over her daughter’s hair.
“She’s too clever for her age,” the woman said with a bitter smile.
I crouched down so I was eye level with the little girl.
“What’s your name?”
“Millie,” she answered, offering a small grin.
I smiled back.
“Millie, do you like satsumas?”
Her face lit up.
“Love them!”
I dug one out of my bag and handed it to her. She took it so carefully, like it was something priceless.
“Mum used to make tea with satsumas,” Millie said proudly. “When we had a kitchen.”
I swallowed hard, fighting the lump in my throat.
“Sounds lovely,” I managed.
Millie’s mum shifted uncomfortably.
“Sorry, I don’t want to be pushy, but… d’you know anywhere safe we could stay? Just for tonight?”
I nodded quickly.
“I’ll find somewhere.”
Pulling out my phone, I made a few calls. After a couple of tries, I found a shelter nearby with space for families.
“There’s a place ten minutes from here,” I told them. “They’ve got beds, and they do dinner, too.”
The woman exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for years.
“Thank you. Really, thank you.”
“I can give you a lift if you like?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“That’d be a lifesaver.”
We gathered their few things—a battered rucksack and a couple of plastic bags—and headed to my car. On the way, Millie chattered about all the things she’d cook when they had a kitchen again.
“Pasta and cheese, pancakes, spaghetti, and Mum’s satsuma tea!”
Her mum gave a sad little smile.
“One day, love.”
When we got to the shelter, the staff welcomed them warmly. Before going inside, Millie turned to me, clutching that satsuma tight against her chest.
“I’m gonna save this,” she said, dead serious. “For our kitchen.”
My eyes stung, but I kept it together and nodded.
“Good plan, Millie.”
Driving home, I couldn’t shake her words. To me, a satsuma was just something I grabbed without a second thought. To Millie, it was hope—a dream of a better life. And I wished with everything in me that one day soon, she’d get to make that satsuma tea in her very own kitchen.
