Chapter 18 #2
It needs structure and systems, a story told the right way.
A way for people to give without needing recognition, and a way for families to receive without ever feeling watched or measured.
Something that honors the quiet dignity my mother believed in, the kind of generosity that doesn’t announce itself.
My pulse quickens as the shape of it begins to form.
I grab a pen.
On a clean page, I write:
The Christmas Kindness Drive —
Expansion Ideas
And underneath it, in my own handwriting this time:
– Digital coordination
– Donor privacy
– Neighboring towns
– Year-round support
– Keep Diane’s rules intact
I stop, pen hovering mid-word.
Diane’s rules.
The name looks right on the page, not for branding or polish, but for lineage. For the way I want to remember her, and the way I want her kindness to keep moving forward.
My phone buzzes against the desk, sharp in the quiet.
It’s Erik.
If I know you, you got off the plane, made a cup of coffee and got right to work. Just checking in, home safe? How are you feeling other than exhausted?
I smile, soft and unguarded, and type back.
You do know me well, Mr. Beaumont. Better than I know myself sometimes. Yes, I am home. It feels… different.
Three dots appear.
Different good or different scary?
I glance at my mother’s notebook open beside me. At the page filling with ideas that feel less like pressure and more like permission.
Different like something’s starting.
There’s a pause.
I like the sound of that.
I look back at the notebook and turn the page.
For the first time since my mom died, the future doesn’t feel like something I have to survive. It feels like something I get to build.
I don’t sleep much that night.
Not because my mind is racing but because it’s finally moving. There’s a difference; racing feels panicked. This feels like a slow current I can step into instead of being dragged under.
Morning light filters through the blinds, pale and wintry, catching on the frames on my wall that I can’t wait to fill with photos of my mother, of Erik, of who I am and where I come from.
I make coffee and don’t rush it, that action alone feels new.
I open my laptop, pull the notebook closer, and flip back to the page where I wrote The Christmas Kindness Drive — Expansion Ideas. The words look steadier this morning, more like a plan and less like a reaction.
I add another bullet.
– Start with systems, not scale
That was always my mother’s way. She hated attention but loved logistics.
I hover over my phone for a long moment before unlocking it.
Then I dial.
Mrs. Kincaid answers on the second ring.
“Savannah,”brisk as ever. “I was wondering how long it would take.”
She always knows how to deliver with just a little edge. “Good morning to you too.”
“You don’t call unless you’re ready to do something,” she replies. “So. What is it? I’m all ears, dear.”
I take a breath. “I think The Christmas Kindness Drive can reach more families without changing what it is.”
Silence.
Then, carefully, “Go on.”
I explain, slowly, and clearly. “Digital intake forms that don’t collect names.
Centralized donations so no single family is visible.
Coordinating volunteers so the work doesn’t fall on the same shoulders every year.
Partnering quietly with nearby towns that don’t have the infrastructure Pineview does. ”
“I don’t want to make it louder,” I reassure her. “I want to change more lives.”
Another pause.
When she speaks again, her voice is different. Softer around the edges.“Your mother would’ve liked that. She always said sustainability mattered more than scale.”
My throat tightens. “She wrote that down.”
“I know,” Mrs. Kincaid says gently. “She showed me once.”
Of course she did.
“I can help from here,” I add. “New York. Remotely. I’m not trying to take over. I just…”
“You’re trying to build,” she cuts in.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“I’ll loop Erik in,” she continues. “He’ll want to hear it from you.”
“I figured.”
“Good. That man, he listens to you.”
When the call ends, I sit back in my chair, heart thudding with anticipation. The kind you get when you know something seismic is about to shift in your life.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
You’re not even gone for two days and Mrs. Kincaid says you have ideas.
I smile.
I might have a few.
A second later, my phone rings.
I answer without thinking.
“Hey you,” I breathe into the phone, his presence alone causing me to shift in my seat.
“Hey you,” he replies. His voice warm even through a screen. “You okay? Have you slept? Have you eaten?”
“I am,” I say honestly. “I’m exhausted but, I am good.”
“Good. So, dreamer, tell me what you’re thinking.”
I talk. He listens.
I tell him about the notebook. About Diane’s list, about Diane’s rules. About wanting to keep the heart intact while giving the work room to breathe. When I finish, there’s a quiet stretch on the line.
Then Erik exhales.“That sounds like her biggest dream come true. It sounds a lot like her. And you.”
Relief blooms in my chest.
“I was worried it would feel like I was changing it too much,” I admit.
“Never. It feels like you’re protecting it.”
“I can come back,” I say carefully. “Not to stay. But to set things up in person. If that helps.”
There’s a smile in his voice when he answers. I can hear it. “I think Pineview could handle that. I know I could.”
We don’t say anything else for a moment because this calm certainty, this shared purpose, it feels like something worth letting settle.
When we hang up, I turn back to my notebook and write one more line at the bottom of the page.
– Keep it human. Always remember Diane’s rules.
I underline it once.
Outside, the city roars back into itself rich with horns, voices, and movement but inside my apartment, something feels aligned. I feel like I’ve finally found the thread that ties who I was to who I am now.
I open my calendar and block off time in two weeks.
For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like a fork in the road. It feels like a bridge.