It was the afternoon of December 24. As the newest hygienist, I had to work. My day was brightened by the office Christmas tree and a gift from my date—a dozen long-stemmed red roses.
While cleaning, the receptionist said a lady urgently needed to speak with me. I saw a tired young woman holding an infant. Nervously, she explained her husband—a prisoner in a nearby facility—was my next patient. She wasn't allowed to visit him, and he had never seen their son. She pleaded to let them sit together in the waiting room as long as possible before his appointment. My schedule was light, so I agreed.
Soon, her husband arrived—shackled, handcuffed, escorted by two armed guards. The woman's tired face lit up like our Christmas tree when he sat beside her. I kept peeking out, watching them laugh, cry, and share their child.
After nearly an hour, I called him back. The guards stood outside. He seemed gentle and humble. I wondered what he had done to be held so. I tried to make him comfortable.
At the end, I wished him a Merry Christmas—difficult to say to a man returning to prison. He smiled, thanked me, and said he was sad he couldn't get his wife a Christmas gift. Hearing this, I had an idea.
I'll never forget their faces as he gave her my beautiful roses. I'm not sure who felt the most joy—the husband giving, the wife receiving, or me, sharing that special moment.