The cold came in fast that year.
One day we were walking to school in hoodies,
and the next we were huddled under the one blanket that didn’t have holes in it.
The glass had been cracked since summer.
Mom said we’d fix it “soon,”
but soon never really came.
When it finally shattered during that ice storm,
it wasn’t the sound that scared me.
It was the way she didn’t even flinch—
just grabbed the cardboard from behind the fridge
like she’d already prepared for this moment.
I held the flashlight while she pressed it up against the broken pane.
Her hands were red from the cold.
I didn’t say anything,
just tried to hold the beam steady so she could line up the edges.
I had the blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon,
but my feet were still freezing.
I remember thinking,
if I just didn’t move, maybe the cold wouldn’t find me.
She whispered, “I’m sorry, baby.”
And I didn’t know if she meant the window,
or the cold,
or the fact that we hadn’t had heat in weeks.
Then she paused, looked right at me, and said—
“But we’ve still got each other. And that’s more than a lot.”
It didn’t sound like much at the time.
Just something people say when there’s nothing else to hold on to.
But she meant it.
Every word.
She meant it when the power flickered again.
When the landlord stopped answering calls.
When dinner was saltines and peanut butter four nights in a row.
She meant it when we lit candles not for mood,
but for light.
When our breath fogged up in the hallway.
When we laughed anyway,
wrapped up in that blanket watching old cartoons on a tiny portable screen.
The twist?
A few months later, a lady from school came by.
Said the guidance counselor had noticed I wore the same shoes every day.
Asked if we were okay.
Mom almost said yes—she always did.
But this time, I beat her to it.
“Our window’s made of cardboard,” I said.
“But we’re okay. We’ve still got each other.”
She blinked.
Didn’t ask any more questions.
Just wrote something down and handed us a flyer.
That flyer led to a community program that helped us fix the window.
And the door.
And the heater.
They gave us coats.
Groceries.
Gift cards for things like socks and toothpaste.
But most of all,
they gave Mom a job.
Now?
Now the window has real glass again.
It rattles when it’s windy,
but it doesn’t leak.
We still keep that same piece of cardboard.
Taped up in the back closet like a trophy.
It’s not much to look at—
but to us, it’s proof.
That we made it through.
Together.
Here’s what I’ve learned:
Sometimes love looks like cardboard and flashlights.
Like cracked hands and quiet strength.
Like holding on to each other
when there’s nothing else left to hold.
Sometimes the strongest homes aren’t the warmest—
they’re the ones built on people who don’t give up.
If this story stayed with you, share it. Like it if you’ve ever had to hold things together with whatever you had. And if you know someone trying to keep out the cold— don’t wait for the storm to pass. Knock now. Even a little warmth goes a long way.
