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

A few weeks later, his mom came back in person.

She knocked on my door, eyes swollen.

Jack flew at her.

“You can’t disappear like that again,” he said into her shoulder.

“I know,” she cried.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I thought I was doing what I had to. I was wrong.”

We sat at the table and talked.

About her parents. About money. About being alone with too many people depending on you.

We didn’t excuse what she’d done.

But I understood how desperation can warp judgment.

After that, things weren’t perfect, but they were… better.

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.”

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