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.”
Continue reading…
