“Please, dear.”
He returned with her pill organizer and a glass of water. She patted his hand. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
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.”
Dorothy’s voice softened. “And I learned he was lonely too. So I hired him. He’s strong. And he listens.”
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.
“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.
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