It was a chilly evening when I spotted them—a woman and a little girl sitting 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, shielding her from the biting wind. The girl, maybe five or six, clutched a threadbare stuffed bunny with one missing eye. In front of them sat an empty plastic cup with just a couple of coins inside.
I’d just come out of the shop with a bag of groceries, but something about them made me stop dead in my tracks. My chest ached just looking at them. After hesitating for a second, I walked over.
“Evenin’,” I said softly. “Fancy a bite to eat? I’ve got some food in my bag.”
The woman lifted her gaze, her tired eyes studying me warily.
“That’d be ever so kind,” she whispered, barely audible.
I pulled out a sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of juice from my bag. She took them gratefully, but my attention was fixed on the little girl. She didn’t reach for the food. Instead, her big, curious eyes were locked on me. Then, in a tiny voice, she asked:
“Are you rich?”
The question caught me off guard. I glanced down at myself—just my usual jeans, a cosy jumper, nothing fancy.
“Not really,” I admitted, thrown. “Why d’you ask?”
She pointed at my shopping bag.
“You bought all that without even thinkin’.”
I froze, not sure what to say. Her words, so simple and honest, cut right through me. Before I could reply, she went on:
“Mum says we always have to think before we buy anythin’. 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 like a vice. The girl’s mum let out a quiet sigh and stroked her hair.
“She’s too clever,” the woman said with a sad smile. “Too clever for six.”
I crouched down to meet the girl at eye level.
“What’s your name?”
“Emily,” she said, offering a shy smile.
I grinned back.
“Emily, d’you like satsumas?”
Her whole face lit up.
“Love ’em!”
I fished a satsuma from my bag and handed it to her. She took it so carefully, like it was something precious.
“Mum used to make tea with satsuma peel,” Emily said proudly. “When we had our own kitchen.”
I swallowed hard, fighting the lump in my throat.
“Sounds lovely,” I managed.
Emily’s mum shifted awkwardly.
“Sorry, don’t mean to trouble you, but—if you know of any shelters… it’s hard findin’ somewhere safe to stay the night.”
I nodded straight away.
“Let me see.”
Pulling out my phone, I started searching. After a couple of calls, I found a shelter not far away with spaces left for families.
“There’s one ten minutes from here,” I said. “They’ve got room, and they serve dinner too.”
The woman exhaled like she’d been holding her breath forever, her shoulders dropping as if a weight had been lifted.
“Thank you. Really, thank you so much.”
“I can give you a lift if you like.”
She paused, then nodded.
“That’d be a massive help.”
We gathered their things—a worn-out backpack and a couple of carrier bags—and headed to my car. On the way, Emily chattered away about all the things she’d cook when they had a kitchen again.
“Pasta with cheese, pancakes, spaghetti, and Mum’s satsuma tea!”
Her mum gave a small, sad smile.
“One day, love.”
When we pulled up at the shelter, the staff welcomed them warmly. Before going in, Emily turned to me, clutching the satsuma tight against her chest.
“I’m gonna save this,” she said solemnly. “For our kitchen.”
My eyes stung, but I held it together and nodded.
“Sounds like a plan, Emily.”
Driving home, I couldn’t shake her words from my head. To me, a satsuma’s just a bit of fruit I grab without a second thought. To Emily, it was hope. A little promise of better days. And with everything in me, I prayed that one day, she’d get to brew that satsuma tea in her very own home.
