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

The people who’d shown up.

I told his mom first.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, crying. “Your family—”

Later, I told Jack.

He went very still.

“Why?” he asked. “I mean… thank you.

But why us?”

“Because when I was alone and ready to disappear,” I said, “you sat on my couch, ate my bad oatmeal, and let me be your grandma. You gave me a reason to wake up.”

He hugged me so tight my ribs popped.

“You’re stuck with me,” he said. “Even when you’re bossy.”

“Good,” I said.

“Somebody has to be.”

I don’t know how much time I’ve got left.

But I know this:

I won’t leave this world as a ghost in an empty house.

When I go, there’ll be a boy—almost a man—who remembers that an old woman next door stepped out on a cold night and asked if he was okay.

There’ll be a woman who knows this house is hers now, not just on paper but in memory.

There’ll be skateboard marks on the steps and pencil lines on the wall where we measured how tall Jack got.

And this house, which once only echoed with a ticking clock, will stay full of life long after I’m gone.

All because one night, I heard a kid crying and decided not to look away.

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