Eventually, she began leaving her door slightly open during the day. Just a crack—enough to hear footsteps, enough to feel less alone. I’d wave when I passed. Sometimes I’d stop to chat. She told me about George, a Korean War veteran, about her children “too busy to visit,” and about the travels she once took, now reduced to struggling just to reach the mailbox.
Then the biker arrived.
I assumed the worst. “Can I help you?” I asked, opening my door.
He turned and smiled—a smile that softened every intimidating feature. “I’m helping Miss Dorothy with her groceries. She called me.”
From inside: “Michael, is that you? Come in! And bring my nosy neighbor too.”
I followed, wary. Dorothy was radiant. Actually radiant.
“This is Michael,” she announced proudly. “He’s my new helper. I fired the agency yesterday.”
Michael unpacked the groceries with ease. “Miss Dorothy likes her crackers on the second shelf,” he said. “Tea bags go in the canister by the stove.”
“You fired the agency?” I asked. “Your kids know?”
Her smile dimmed slightly. “They don’t need to know everything. I’m not dead yet, despite their best efforts to plan my funeral.”
“Please, dear.”
He returned with her pill organizer and a glass of water. She patted his hand. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Curious, I asked, “How did you two meet?”
Dorothy’s eyes sparkled. “He tried to steal my purse.”
Michael chuckled. “Not exactly.”
“Pish posh,” she waved him off. “I was at the store, couldn’t reach the prune juice. He reached over me—I thought he was after my bag, so I whacked him with my cane.”
“She did,” Michael said, rubbing his shin. “Then I handed her the juice. She was embarrassed and bought me a coffee.”
But that wasn’t the whole story. Not even close.
Two weeks later, the storm arrived. A Lexus and BMW pulled into the lot. Her children—two sons and a daughter—stepped out in tailored suits, faces hard as stone. I left my door cracked.
The shouting began immediately.
“Mother, have you lost your mind?” Helen barked. “A biker? A Hells Angel?”
“He is not!” Dorothy snapped. “He’s a gentleman.”
“He’s a criminal,” Mark said. “We’re calling a lawyer. You’re not competent. Power of attorney is underway.”
I stepped in. “This stopped being private when you started yelling ‘incompetent’ in the hallway,” I said. “I’m your mother’s neighbor. And I’m a journalist.”
They paused.
“Your mother,” I continued, “hasn’t looked this alive in months. Your agency treated her like furniture. She sat in silence. Do you know what she fears most? Dying alone, staring at a wall. That’s exactly what you were paying for.”
Helen scoffed. “And he’s better? He’s probably robbing her.”
“He listens,” I said. “He knows she likes her crackers on the second shelf. Do you?”
Silence.
“He knows she plays ‘Sentimental Journey’ at 4 PM. He knows George’s service in Korea. He lets her tell the same stories repeatedly—not because she forgets, but because she wants to be remembered.”
Michael finally spoke. “I’m not here for her money. Check my timesheets.”
Mark frowned. “How do we know you’re not an ex-con?”
Michael looked down, then pulled out a worn wallet with a faded photo of a younger woman who looked like Dorothy.
“This was my mother,” he said, voice cracking. “She had Parkinson’s too. I was a lousy son, always on the road. I thought I had time. She died alone. I never got to say goodbye. Never got her crackers. This isn’t a job—it’s penance. Your mother is giving me a second chance.”
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