The Washing Machine Repair Guy Gave Me A Note—But It Wasn’t About Me At All

Building a New Connection, Piece by Piece

Over the next few weeks, Ruben and I stayed in contact. He came over once to fix my dryer when it started making a terrible, loud squeal. Then he returned again when I couldn’t figure out how to get the backyard sprinklers working. I started baking again—something I hadn’t done in years—and always made extra treats for him.

One evening, after he finished helping me re-seal the edges of my bathtub, we sat on the porch, slowly drinking lemonade. The air smelled fresh, like newly cut grass and sweet honeysuckle. Without warning, he said, “You know, I used to wonder what it’d be like to have a family.”

I didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure if I was the right person to respond.

Then I said, “So did I.”

From that moment on, he started calling me every Sunday. They were just short calls—updates on his work, asking if I had watched a certain new documentary, or if I could suggest a good dinner recipe that didn’t involve pasta.

About three months later, he brought Elira, his mother, to my house so we could finally meet.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe some cool distance or awkward small talk. But she walked in holding a lemon tart and said, “I heard you bake too. Maybe you can show me how not to burn the crust.”

She was funny, direct, and much kinder than I had imagined. She also carried a lot of sadness about keeping Felix away, but I did not judge her for it. Life is often complicated. People simply try to protect themselves the best way they know how.

That night, we laughed together over wine and old memories. She asked me if Felix ever painted when we were married. I told her no. He didn’t even draw doodles.

“Well, he got good,” she said. “Real good.”

Ruben went out to his truck and brought in two canvases wrapped in paper.

I recognized my own face immediately in one of the paintings—older, but clearly me. The light was soft, and I had a faint smile, like I was about to say something and then forgot what it was. I had never posed for that portrait, but somehow, Felix had painted me exactly as I was.

“He painted you from memory,” Ruben said. “There’s a whole stack of them.”

My heart felt like it was breaking open. I had spent years believing he had completely forgotten me.

I hung the portrait in my living room. I didn’t do it out of vanity, but because it was a reminder of the person I used to be—and the person I still had the chance to become.

A few weeks later, Ruben asked if I would go with him to an art auction in San Luis Obispo. Some of Felix’s paintings were going to be shown. We drove down together in my slightly dented Civic car, with the windows rolled down and music playing loudly.

The gallery was small but nice. Felix’s artwork was displayed under soft lights, and people were quietly saying nice things about the pieces. There were paintings of nature, still objects, and a few peaceful portraits of strangers.

Then I saw one painting titled “The Last Thing I Remember.” It was a picture of the kitchen in our old house—sunlight pouring over a cup of tea, a plate with half-eaten toast, and a red cardigan sweater draped over a chair.

It was my red cardigan.

I stood there, unable to move. That morning—years ago—was the day we had our worst fight. I had thrown that sweater down and walked out the door. I never returned.

“He kept painting you,” Ruben whispered next to me. “Even when he was sick.”

It turned out that Felix had been fighting cancer for almost three years. He did it quietly. He didn’t tell anyone outside of a very small group. Not even his own sister. He just kept painting, as if he were trying to say all the things he never could with words.

I drove home that night feeling like I had been given a second chance that I hadn’t asked for—but one that I very much needed

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