The Longest Days End

On a biting winter night in New York, Chris, holding his son's tiny hand, stood outside a subway station. Their shelter had closed early, and with only a few coins in his pocket, he had no plan—just hope.

They descended into the station, pretending to be travelers. Chris pointed to a nearby bench. “We’re camping tonight,” he whispered with a forced smile. His son, trusting, nodded and curled up beside him. Chris held back tears.

By day, he wore a second-hand suit and knocked on doors, trying to sell medical scanners no one wanted. By night, he read textbooks by streetlights, preparing for an internship at a stock brokerage firm—one that didn’t pay.

One morning, after working all night painting a friend's apartment to earn a few dollars, Chris rushed straight to an interview—unshaven, paint on his clothes, heart pounding. The panel looked him over, skeptical.

The manager raised an eyebrow and asked, “Chris, what would you say if a man came to an interview without a nice shirt on, and we hired him?”

Chris didn’t miss a beat. He smiled and replied, “He must’ve had on some really nice pants.”

Laughter broke the tension. They remembered that.

Every rejection chipped away at him. But every morning, he rose. “Just one more day,” he told himself.

Months passed. Then one afternoon, Chris was called into an office. The manager smiled and said, “We’d like to offer you a job.”

Chris stepped outside, dazed, and looked up at the sky. For the first time in months, he felt the weight lift.

That evening, holding his son’s hand once again, he walked through the streets—not as a homeless man, but as someone who had survived the storm.

Because tough times never last. But tough people, like Chris, do.