My Little Neighbor Didn’t Let Anyone Into His Home Until a Police Officer Arrived and Stepped Inside

Sometimes Jack slept at her place, sometimes at mine. Most afternoons he ended up at my table, anyway, complaining about homework and asking what was for dinner.

His mom started saying, “Go ask Grandma Helen,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Years passed.

He grew taller. His hat didn’t look as silly.

His voice dropped. He started carrying my groceries and scolding me for climbing stools.

“Sit down, Grandma,” he’d say. “You’re gonna break yourself.”

I’d swat his arm and sit down.

Meanwhile, my body gave me new complaints.

Then came the word: cancer.

“At your age,” the doctor said gently, “we focus on comfort, not cure.”

I went home, sat at my old desk, and pulled out my will.

It still had my children’s names on it.

Children who hadn’t walked through my door in years.

I stared at it.

Then I picked up a pen.

By the time I was done, everything I had—small savings, jewelry, and this little house—was left to Jack and his mother.

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