My Son Befriended a Garbage Man He Called 'Mr. Tomorrow' Until I Learned Who He Really Was — Story of the Day

Every morning, my son handed juice to a garbage man he called “Mr. Tomorrow.” I thought he was a stranger until I learned he held a secret tied to our family.

I woke up at six. Always. Even on weekends. Even when I could allow myself one more hour of peace. I was alone, without a husband, without support, and had to hold it all together.

I’d never met my father. Once, when I was seven, I asked if he had green eyes like mine. Mom said “no,” and slammed the cupboard.

She never let me talk about him, but as I grew older, the house he left behind was the only thing I had from him. And the only thing I could leave for my son.

Jamie sat in my bedroom doorway that morning, holding two mismatched socks.

“Mom, my socks aren’t holding hands!”

I laughed and quickly walked over.

“Well, of course not — they’re brother and sister. They’re always fighting.”

“Then let the sister go suffer and the brother watch cartoons!”

He ran off for his backpack. Later, when we had a quick breakfast, I glanced at the cookie box. Empty. And there was barely any juice left.

“Huh… Jamie, you didn’t take any sweets yesterday without asking, did you?”

“No, Mom.”

It was the third time that week. I didn’t say anything, but something itched with suspicion.

I dropped Jamie off at daycare and headed to the supermarket where I worked as a cashier.

There, I smiled until my cheeks hurt and my feet begged for mercy. Every night, I came home with an aching back and a mental calculator counting down to payday.

***

The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual — a garbage truck had rumbled down the street and jolted me from sleep. I went downstairs and through the slightly opened kitchen window, I heard Jamie’s voice.

“Good morning, Mr. Tomorrow!”

I crept to the window and cautiously peeked outside.

Jamie was out on the sidewalk in his pajamas, holding a cup of juice. In front of him stood an elderly man with silver hair, wearing a vest with orange reflective stripes, one hand on his garbage cart. Smiling.

“You’ve brought me the best breakfast in town again, kid.”

“Today is apple. Tomorrow will be orange,” Jamie declared proudly.

“Oooh, orange is pure luxury,” the man bent slightly and accepted the cup with both hands.

“Thank you, Jamie. You’re the sunshine in my morning.”

And then… my son hugged him. Just like that — quick, gentle, heartfelt.

Something about the way they fit together made my stomach twist. As if this wasn’t the first time they hugged — just the first time I saw it.

Who was that man? How long had they been speaking?

When Jamie came back inside, I was already waiting in the hallway.

“Jamie... Who was that?”

“He’s my friend. Mr. Tomorrow. He’s lonely. So I bring him juice and cookies. Please don’t be mad, Mom!”

I blinked. “Wait... Mr. Tomorrow? Why do you call him that?”

Jamie shrugged with a smile.

“Because he always says, ‘See you tomorrow, kid.’ Even when I forget the juice. Even when it rains. And he never breaks his promise.”

“How long have you been talking to him?”

“Umm... since he called my drawing a masterpiece! That was... like... winter, maybe?”

I wanted to ask more, but then the sound of wheels scraping made me turn toward the door. I opened it slightly…

The man was standing by the gate, looking straight at me. He lifted his hand and waved. Then he placed the empty bin near the curb and walked slowly back to his truck. There was something in his eyes.

Sadness? Longing?

I looked out toward the street again, but the truck was already gone. And I had a strange feeling...

Whatever bound him to our gate hadn’t let go just yet.

***

My Mom arrived without warning, with three suitcases and not a single smile. I already knew her visit would last longer than any of us expected.

Her live-in partner had suddenly “turned out to be stingy, indifferent, and no better than your father, that traitor,” as she so often said. That morning, I heard her from the porch before she even crossed the threshold.

“Taxis are too expensive! And buses — please, they’re for pensioners, not for a woman with standards.”

“Hi, Mom.”

I led her to the guest room, where I had laid out fresh towels, bought her favorite mint tea, and placed a few books by the window.

“The room... well, tolerable. But this lemon smell is practically yelling at me. Are you trying to cleanse my aura or fumigate me?”

I clenched my jaw behind a smile. “It’s a natural spray. You don’t like chemicals, remember?”

She sighed theatrically. But it was not over.

“But what can one expect from someone who still works as a cashier…”

I said nothing. She marched past me toward the hallway and pushed open Jamie’s door. I followed behind her, already bracing myself.

“And this! Look at this room. It’s dark as a cave!”

“It’s cozy,” I offered.

“It’s a hazard. How is Jamie supposed to read in here? You’ve got one sad little bulb. That’s it?”

“I’ll add another lamp.”

“With your education, you should be designing lighting, not living under it.”

Before I could answer, Jamie beat me to it.

“Grandma, I’ll show you my new book. Let’s go read it.”

"Sweetheart, of course. I have all the time in the world..."

There was a flicker in her eyes. Like she couldn’t bring herself to lecture him the way she did me.

As if, somehow, Jamie disarmed her just by existing.

That was my son. My wise little grown-up boy.

Every time Mom started another rebellion — about my degree, my haircut, my life choices — Jamie stepped in. He held her hand like a little diplomat escorting a dangerous leader to peace talks.

“Grandma, come see how much my cactus grew!”

Or...

“Grandma, I drew you, but with wings, because you look like a fairy.”

Meanwhile, I was so wrapped up in the move, in her rustling around the house, in her endless parade of remarks, that I completely… Completely forgot about Mr. Tomorrow.

About the man who didn’t know yet that the following morning, it wouldn’t be just Jamie waiting for him.

***

The very next morning, I woke up to the creak of the front door. Jamie had slipped out again with a glass of juice in hand.

I was just reaching for my robe when I heard footsteps behind me. Mom was already standing at the window, peering through the curtain. And then, without a word, she stormed toward the front door.

“Mom, wait!”

I hurried after her, but she had already stepped out onto the porch.

“What is this! Good grief...” she muttered, seeing Jamie hugging Mr. Tomorrow.

The man was just about to leave when Mom’s voice cut through the morning air like a knife.

“Don’t you touch my grandson!”

Jamie turned, startled, staring up at her with wide eyes.

“Grandma?”

“No, Jamie. Absolutely not!”

Mom was already marching toward them. She placed herself between Jamie and the man like a gate slamming shut.

“You have no right to be near him. He’s a child! And you... You’re a dirty, reeking trashman.”

“Mom, stop...” I said under my breath, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

But there was no stopping her now.

“That filthy uniform should’ve been burned years ago! You smell like a dumpster in July!”

The man looked at her steadily. Just... calmly. Like someone who had heard it all before. And then, he spoke.

“You haven’t changed, Margot.”

Mom’s face went pale.

“You don’t get to call me that,” she hissed.

“And you don’t get to erase the past like it never happened.”

“Shut up, Leo! Get out of here!”

Leo? She said Leo. My mother knows his name. My mother… knows him.

Leo turned to Jamie, then to me.

“I never touched your boy. He came to me. Every morning. Brought juice. Told me stories. And now I see, he is not a stranger to me.”

“Don’t you dare!” Mom nearly lost her balance. “Don’t you even suggest...”

I stood frozen.

“What do you mean?”

But Leo was already turning back to his truck.

“We’ll talk another time. When the air on this porch isn’t quite so poisonous.”

And just like that, he walked away. Jamie tried to run after him, but I caught him by the shoulders.

“You can’t, sweetheart…”

“But he didn’t even drink his juice…”

I pulled him into my arms. Mom stood by the steps, hands on her hips, triumphant.

A door creaked across the street. Curtains twitched. One woman held up her phone, recording.

And there I stood — my son trembling against me, my mother burning holes in the air with her stare, and a man I barely knew walking away.

But that moment… I wasn’t sure, I didn’t know him. Not anymore.

And somewhere between my son’s heartbeat and my mother’s silence, a truth I didn’t ask for was already unraveling.

***

Jamie no longer read with Grandma. No longer asked about breakfast. He just sat by the window in silence, the sparkle in his eyes slowly fading.

Meanwhile, Mom calmly sliced an apple, as if nothing had changed. I dropped the dishtowel on the counter.

“Mom… how could you let that happen?”

She didn’t look up. “What are you talking about?”

“You scared him away.”

“He had no business being near your son.”

“My son adored him. And you... You humiliated him — right there, in front of everyone. Including your grandson.”

“He’s just a janitor. From a life I left behind.”

I stared at her, my hands trembling. “You still don’t get it. Jamie didn’t care what he wore. Neither did I.”

“You say that now. But you would’ve. Eventually. That’s how it starts.”

“Don’t twist this. Just tell me the truth. Who is Leo?”

She turned slowly, her face pale but defiant.

“He’s your father.”

The air went still. I swallowed hard.

“You told me he left us.”

“He did. He chose that job over me. Over us. I begged him to quit. To aim higher. But he said it made him feel useful — like he was keeping the world clean.”

Her voice cracked.

“And when I saw him standing there with Jamie… I felt like I was back in that same choice again.”

“Oh, Mom. You pushed him away then. And you did it again now.”

***

But it wasn’t Leo.

The morning after — same routine. Different man.

And again. And again.

Each time, Jamie waited a little longer. Said a little less.

So I decided to act.

After a few phone calls and not much searching, I found him.

By noon, as Mom and Jamie sat quietly with a book between them — though Jamie barely turned a page — I walked in.

“Jamie, sweetheart, come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Leo stepped inside. Jamie jumped up.

“Mr. Tomorrow! I knew you'd come!”

I smiled and turned to him.

“Sweetheart, come say hi to your grandpa.”

Leo knelt down, visibly moved.

“I missed you, kid.”

“I missed you more!”

Then came Mom’s voice, sharp as ever.

“What is he doing here?!”

I stepped forward before Leo could speak.

“He’s here because I invited him. Because he belongs here.”

“He is not family.”

“Yes, he is. He’s more family than you’ve allowed anyone to be in years.”

“Like father, like daughter. Both brilliant. Both wasting your lives in uniforms.”

“Mom, happiness isn’t stitched into a job title. I love what I do. It’s simple. But it’s mine.”

Leo stood quiet, letting the moment belong to us. Jamie threw his arms around him.

“I told you orange juice was for heroes.”

“And you were right.”

That night, the air in our home changed.

It didn’t feel divided anymore. It felt... real.

Maybe family isn’t about who stayed or who left. Maybe it’s about who’s brave enough to return — and who finally chooses to open the door.

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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: I spent years dreaming of this baby until the moment I told my husband, and he asked if it was too late to undo it. Days later, his mother gave me her own condition for staying in the family. Read the full story here.

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