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I carried my elderly neighbor down nine flights during a fire, and two days later, a man showed up at my door and said, “You did it on purpose. You’re a disgrace.”
I’m 36, a single dad to my 12-year-old son, Nick. It’s just been us since his mom died three years ago.
The elevator groans, and the hallway always smells like burnt toast.
Next door lives Mrs. Lawrence. Seventies, white hair, wheelchair, retired English teacher.
Soft voice, sharp memory. She corrects my texts, and I actually say “thank you.”
For Nick, she became “Grandma L” long before he said it out loud. She bakes him pies before big tests and made him rewrite an entire essay over “their” and “they’re.” When I work late, she reads with him so he doesn’t feel alone.
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