Instead, he had quietly gathered the items, carried them inside, and asked whether she needed anything else.
Alex looked away as Dorothy continued.
“He noticed I had no food in the refrigerator. I had been pretending I was managing better than I was.”
Alex had returned after his shift with soup, bread, and fruit. The next day, he came back to fix a loose railing. Then he repaired a leaking faucet and replaced the basement light.
“So you fell in love with him?” I asked.
Dorothy gave me a tired smile.
“Not the way you imagined. I love him like the grandson I never had.”
Alex sat beside her, staring at his hands.
His mother had died when he was 16.
His father disappeared soon afterward, leaving him to move between relatives and temporary rooms. He worked long hours making deliveries and slept in his car whenever he could not afford a motel.
Dorothy had discovered the truth after noticing all his belongings in the back seat.
“I had three empty bedrooms,” she said. “He had nowhere safe to sleep.”
“So she let me stay,” Alex added. “I tried to refuse.”
“He was terrible at refusing.”
A faint smile crossed his face.
The boxes in the basement held donated blankets, canned food, toiletries, and warm clothing. Dorothy and Alex had been preparing care packages for elderly residents and struggling families in the neighborhood.
The project had been Dorothy’s idea.
“Being helped made me realize how many people are too proud or frightened to ask,” she said. “I wanted to do something useful.”
I looked around the room again. What I had mistaken for suspicious secrecy was careful preparation. Each box had a handwritten label. Some were marked for families with children. Others were intended for people living alone.
“But why shut me out?” I asked, unable to hide the hurt in my voice.
Dorothy’s expression softened.
“Because I knew you would try to take over.”
“I would have helped.”
“Exactly.”
She reached for my hand.
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