The Man My Son Called “Mr. Tomorrow”
Every morning, like clockwork, my little boy handed a cup of juice to a garbage man he called “Mr. Tomorrow.” I thought it was sweet… until I found out that this man wasn’t a stranger at all. He held a secret that had everything to do with our family.
I always woke up at six. Didn’t matter if it was the weekend, didn’t matter if I was exhausted. I had to keep life running, alone, with no partner, no backup—just me and my son.
I never knew my father. One time, when I was seven, I asked Mom if he had green eyes like mine. She slammed the cupboard and snapped, “No.” That was the end of that. She shut down every conversation about him after that.
But even though she wanted him erased, the old house he left behind became mine. The only thing he gave me… and the only thing I’d ever be able to pass down to my son.
That morning, Jamie sat in my bedroom doorway, clutching two socks that didn’t match.
“Mom, my socks aren’t holding hands!” he said, eyes wide with concern.
I laughed, walked over, and knelt beside him.
“Well, of course not — they’re brother and sister. They’re always fighting.”
He lit up. “Then let the sister go suffer and the brother watch cartoons!” He tossed the socks and bolted down the hall to grab his backpack.
We had a quick breakfast. I glanced at the cookie box — empty. And the juice carton was nearly finished too.
“Huh… Jamie, did you sneak any sweets yesterday?” I asked.
“No, Mom.”
Third time that week. I didn’t push it, but a small alarm bell went off in my head.
After dropping Jamie at daycare, I went to my job at the supermarket. I stood at the cashier for hours, smiling until my cheeks hurt and counting every second until payday. Every night, I came home with aching feet and just enough strength to make dinner.
The next morning, something woke me early — the loud roar of a garbage truck outside. I groaned but got out of bed anyway. As I walked downstairs, I heard voices from the kitchen window, which had been left slightly open.
Jamie’s voice.
“Good morning, Mr. Tomorrow!”
I paused and quietly peeked outside.
There he was — Jamie, in his little pajamas, standing on the sidewalk with a cup of juice in hand. Across from him stood an elderly man in a reflective vest, silver hair poking out from under his cap, one hand resting on his garbage cart. He had the gentlest smile.
“You’ve brought me the best breakfast in town again, kid,” the man said warmly.
“Today is apple. Tomorrow will be orange,” Jamie replied proudly.
“Ooooh, orange is pure luxury,” the man chuckled and accepted the juice with both hands. “Thank you, Jamie. You’re the sunshine in my morning.”
And then… Jamie hugged him. Just like that. Quick. Warm. Familiar.
I felt something strange. That hug wasn’t new. This wasn’t the first time they’d done that. It was just the first time I’d seen it.
Who was this man? How long had this been going on?
When Jamie walked back inside, I was waiting.
“Jamie… Who was that?”
“That’s Mr. Tomorrow! He’s my friend. He’s lonely, so I bring him juice and cookies. Please don’t be mad, Mom!”
I blinked. “Wait… why do you call him Mr. Tomorrow?”
He shrugged with a grin. “Because he always says, ‘See you tomorrow, kid.’ Even if I forget the juice. Even when it rains. He never breaks his promise.”
“How long have you been talking to him?”
“Umm… since he called my drawing a masterpiece. That was… winter, maybe?”
Before I could ask more, I heard the wheels of the cart again. I opened the door slightly.
The man stood at our gate, looking straight at me. He lifted his hand in a quiet wave. Then he gently placed the trash bin down and walked away. Slowly. With something heavy in his eyes.
Sadness? Regret?
I stared after him, even as the truck drove off. I had the strangest feeling that this man — this so-called stranger — was tied to us in a way I couldn’t yet explain.
A few days later, Mom arrived unannounced — dragging three suitcases and not a single smile.
Her boyfriend had apparently revealed his “true colors,” and she was done. Her voice carried all the way up the porch.
“Taxis are too expensive! And buses — please, I’m not a pensioner!”
“Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to hide my weariness.
I’d set up the guest room with clean towels, mint tea, and books by the window. She stepped inside, sniffed, and said:
“This lemon smell is practically screaming at me. Are you cleansing my aura or fumigating me?”
I gritted my teeth behind a smile. “It’s a natural spray. You hate chemicals, remember?”
She rolled her eyes and walked down the hallway.
“But what can you expect from someone who still works as a cashier…”
I stayed silent. She barged into Jamie’s room and gasped.
“This room! It’s a cave! How is he supposed to read in here? One sad little bulb — that’s it?”
“It’s cozy,” I tried to argue.
“It’s a hazard.”
“I’ll add another lamp.”
“With your brain, you should be designing lighting, not living under it.”
Before I could speak, Jamie appeared with perfect timing.
“Grandma! I’ll show you my new book! Let’s go read it!”
Her expression softened just enough. “Sweetheart, of course. I have all the time in the world…”
Jamie had that effect. Like a tiny ambassador for peace. Whenever Mom started one of her lectures, Jamie would step in — with cactus updates, fairy drawings, or just by grabbing her hand.
And all the while, I was so busy juggling her moods and settling her in… I forgot about Mr. Tomorrow.
Until the next morning.
I was heading downstairs when I heard the front door creak. Jamie had slipped out again with a cup of juice.
I reached for my robe, but before I could react, Mom was already at the window, pulling back the curtain. And then — she stormed to the front door.
“Mom, wait—”
Too late.
She marched outside, her voice sharp like broken glass.
“What is this! Good grief…”
The man — Mr. Tomorrow — had just bent down for a hug when her voice rang out.
“Don’t you touch my grandson!”
Jamie turned, shocked. “Grandma?”
She stepped between them like a wall.
“He’s a child! And you… you’re a filthy, reeking trashman!”
“Mom, stop,” I whispered, horrified.
But she kept going.
“That uniform should’ve been burned years ago! You smell like a dumpster!”
The man didn’t flinch. He just looked at her — calmly, firmly.
“You haven’t changed, Margot.”
Her face went ghost-white.
“You don’t get to call me that,” she snapped.
“And you don’t get to erase the past like it never happened.”
“Shut up, Leo! Get out of here!”
Leo. She knew his name.
I stared. My mother knew him.
Leo looked at Jamie, then at me.
“I never touched your boy. He came to me. Every morning. With juice. With stories. And now I see… he is not a stranger to me.”
“Don’t you dare—” Mom wobbled, nearly falling.
I stepped forward.
“What do you mean?”
But Leo turned away.
“We’ll talk another time. When the air on this porch isn’t quite so poisonous.”
He walked away. Jamie tried to follow, but I gently stopped him.
“You can’t, sweetheart…”
“But he didn’t even drink his juice…”
I held him tight. Mom stood nearby, arms crossed like she’d won something.
Neighbors peeked through curtains. Someone recorded on their phone.
And me? I stood frozen. My heart pounding. My mother’s stare burning holes through the air.
I didn’t know that man. But I needed to.
Because somewhere between Jamie’s tiny hands and my mother’s silence… the truth was slipping out.
Jamie changed.
He stopped reading with Grandma. Stopped smiling at breakfast. Just sat by the window, watching for the garbage truck that never brought Leo again.
Mom? She acted like nothing happened — calmly slicing apples like she hadn’t just crushed her grandson’s heart.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Mom… how could you do that?”
She didn’t look up. “Do what?”
“You scared him away.”
“He shouldn’t be near your son.”
“Jamie adored him. And you humiliated him. In front of everyone.”
“He’s just a janitor. From a life I left behind.”
My hands were shaking. “Jamie didn’t care what he wore. Neither did I.”
“You say that now. But you would’ve cared. Eventually. That’s how it starts.”
“Stop twisting it. Just tell me the truth. Who is Leo?”
She turned slowly, eyes tired and stubborn.
“He’s your father.”
The words knocked the wind out of me.
“You told me he left us.”
“He did. For that job. 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 broke.
“When I saw him with Jamie… I felt like I was back there again. Him choosing the job over us.”
I shook my head. “You pushed him away. Then and now.”
The garbage truck came the next morning. And the next. And the next.
But it was never Leo.
Jamie still waited every day, juice in hand, hope in his eyes.
Until I decided — no more waiting.
I made a few calls. Found him.
That afternoon, while Mom sat stiffly on the couch and Jamie barely turned the pages of a book, I came in.
“Jamie, sweetheart. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Leo stepped in.
Jamie’s face lit up like the sun. “Mr. Tomorrow! I knew you’d come!”
I smiled and said softly, “Sweetheart, come say hi to your grandpa.”
Leo knelt down, tears in his eyes.
“I missed you, kid.”
“I missed you more!”
Then came the voice we all expected.
“What is he doing here?!” Mom shouted.
I stepped in.
“He’s here because I invited him. Because he belongs here.”
“He’s not family!”
“Yes, he is. And he always was.”
She scoffed. “Like father, like daughter. Brilliant, and wasting your life in a uniform.”
“Mom, happiness isn’t a job title. I love what I do. It’s honest. It’s mine.”
Leo stayed quiet, letting the moment be mine.
Jamie hugged him tight.
“I told you orange juice was for heroes.”
Leo smiled. “And you were right.”
That night, the air felt different. No more walls. Just truth.
Because maybe family isn’t about who stayed or who left…
Maybe it’s about who’s brave enough to return — and who finally opens the door to let them in.