Where had it come from? Whose money was it? Was I to spend it? Save it? Pass it on to someone more needy? Above all else, why was I chosen? Certainly there were others, countless others, more needy than me. . .

Her reporter's intuition insisted that a remarkable story was on the verge of the front page.

Newspaper reporter Hope Jensen uncovers the remarkable secret behind the “Christmas Jars,” glass jars filled with coins and bills anonymously left for people in need. But along the way, Hope discovers much more than the origin of the jars. When some unexpected news sets off a chain reaction of kindness, Hope's greatest Christmas Eve wish comes true.

The devastating reality of Louise’s ovarian cancer was assuaged in time by Hope’s delight at her new position. Hope’s responsibilities included occasional one-on-one briefings from one of several senior editors. They spelled out the newspaper’s position on important political issues, and, armed with a framework for why the paper leaned one way or another, Hope was tasked with punching out first drafts of political editorials. “The Paper Endorses George A. Lee for Governor.” “The Paper Calls for a Full Investigation of Mayor Caren Floresca.” “The Paper Supports the Aggressive Methods of Sheriff Eugene Jones.” Hope spent hours massaging her four hundred words, only to see them slashed down by someone upstairs. But Hope wanted to work upstairs, too. I belong upstairs, she convinced herself.

For months Hope toiled away, and, in time, more of her own words made the printed page. Six times her editorials ran untouched. Her mother had each professionally framed. They filled a wall in their cozy apartment.

Persistent pain forced Louise to stop working not long after her diagnosis. She bade farewell to her clients and reluctantly sold her cleaning contracts to a company that had what seemed like an army of bright white-and-blue cars with “Clean Police” splattered in neon paint on both sides. Hope never fully understood why cleaning up other people’s messes brought her mother such satisfaction. And though she had no idea how her modest income would support them both for long, she felt relief the first day Louise didn’t head off to care for someone else’s home. “You’re all mine now,” Hope told her.

Each morning Hope made two servings of oatmeal topped with blueberries, always blueberries, and kissed her mother good-bye. During Hope’s daily absence, Louise spent hours creating elaborate pages for their near-endless library of scrapbooks. Evenings were spent reading aloud to one another or playing a specialized Jensen family version of Rummy. Hope loved the evenings.

Saturdays often included very short shopping trips downtown or a quick lunch at Chuck’s. “Should we go cruisin’ for boys?” Hope teased on the way home late one afternoon.

“Not this week, sweetie, maybe next.”

“Ah, now. One of these days we got to find you a man, Momma!” Hope’s voice twanged to her mother’s delight.

“Next week, remind me, and maybe I’ll wear some makeup.”

Hope turned to her mother. “Miss Louise Jensen, some women don’t need makeup.” She tickled her mother’s knee. “You couldn’t get more beautiful if you swallowed last month’s edition of Cosmo.”

Because Louise’s cancer was not detected earlier, her disease was well advanced by the time doctors finally diagnosed it. After unsuccessfully experimenting with less-invasive treatments, Louise relented and scheduled the surgery her doctors long insisted was her best chance. Hope was at her bedside when she finally awoke, twelve hours after bidding good-bye at the patients-only elevator.

“Hello there,” Hope said, holding one of her mother’s hands with both of her own.

“You’re here,” her mother’s voice cracked.

“Of course I am, crazy woman.”

“The good crazy?” Louise struggled to whisper.

“Yes, Mom, the good crazy. Now, shhh.”

Louise breathed heavily. “How did we do?”

“The news is not good.” Hope paused. “They say you’ll never have any children of your own.”

A pained chuckle turned to a cough, and Hope gently put a straw between her mother’s lips. Louise took a long drink and reopened her eyes. “I have a child of my own.” She smiled as broadly as her face allowed.