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

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.

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.

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