She was eighty-five years old.
Sharp-tongued.
Independent.
And completely impossible to ignore.
The first time she spoke to me, I was carrying groceries into my apartment.
She was sitting on her porch watching me.
“Son,” she called.
I turned around.
“If you want to earn decent money, come help me.”
I walked over.
“We’ll agree on a price.”
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t make small talk.
She simply told me exactly what she needed.
Groceries.
Medicine.
Rides to appointments.
Small repairs around the house.
Help with cleaning.
She had no interest in pretending she didn’t need help.
But then she told me something I wasn’t expecting.
She was dying.
She had no close family she trusted.
And she wanted to make arrangements for what would happen after she was gone.
“If you take care of me properly,” she said, “everything I own will go to you.”
I stared at her.
“Everything?”
She nodded.
“House. Savings. Everything.”
I didn’t know what to say.
I’d never owned anything valuable in my life.
Finally, I said:
“Deal.”
Part 3 — I Became Part of Her Routine
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