Two days later, a man appeared at my door, furious and accusing me of manipulation. He was Mrs. Lawrence’s son, angry that she had changed her will after the fire. He believed kindness must have a hidden price. When he began pounding on her door, I stepped in and stopped it, choosing calm and protection over confrontation. That night, Mrs. Lawrence admitted she had left her apartment to us — not out of obligation, but because she felt seen, valued, and safe. We shared dinner together, laughed, and quietly acknowledged what we already knew: family isn’t always defined by blood. Sometimes it’s defined by who stays, who shows up, and who runs back into the fire when everyone else runs away.
