We lived on a quiet cul-de-sac where everyone knew everyone — except for Ms. Abby, the elderly woman in the ivy-covered house at the end of the street. Her curtains were always drawn, her hedges overgrown, and kids whispered spooky stories about her every Halloween. I never paid much attention to the gossip, but I also never had a reason to approach her. That changed when my son Gerry burst through the door one afternoon announcing that she had invited him over to bake cookies. It seemed strange coming from someone so private, but Gerry was excited, so I agreed. Each day afterward he returned from her house happier than ever, talking about old recipes and vintage kitchen gadgets. I told myself he was simply being kind to a lonely neighbor — until he came home holding an envelope of cash.Continue reading…
