For a year, I spent my weekends caring for an elderly neighbor who became the family I didn’t know I needed. After her funeral, a lawyer handed me a note about a mysterious box in her attic. I thought it was a final gift. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Ma’am, do you need help? Please, get in the car. I’ll drive you home.”
The elderly woman looked at me through the pouring rain.
“I’m perfectly capable of getting home, dear.”
Then one of her grocery bags split.
“I’ll drive you home.”
Apples rolled across the sidewalk. A can of beans disappeared beneath a parked car.
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”
I got out and crouched beside her, gathering what I could.
“Still perfectly capable?” I asked.
Apples rolled across the sidewalk.
She gave me a look.
“You’re rather bossy, aren’t you?”
“Only when someone’s determined to drown with her groceries. Come on, I’m Josette.”
That made her laugh.
Her name was Margaret, and she lived three houses down from me.
“You’re rather bossy, aren’t you?”
I was 47, recently divorced, and still getting used to living alone.
I thought I’d rescued a lonely neighbor that afternoon.
A year later, I’d learn how little I knew about her.
A few days later, I knocked on her door.
I thought I’d rescued a lonely neighbor.
“I’m going shopping. Do you need anything?”
She handed me a small list before I’d finished speaking.
“I was hoping you’d come, Josette.”
That became our routine.
Every Wednesday, I collected her grocery list. Most Saturdays, I stayed for tea.
That became our routine.
Soon, tea became lunch, crosswords, and arguments over television shows.
Margaret had opinions about everything.
“That man’s lying,” she’d announce during a mystery show.
“You’ve watched this episode before.”
“Maybe. But I knew he was lying before they confirmed it.”
“That man’s lying.”
One Saturday, she produced a basket of yarn.
“Sit down. I’m teaching you how to knit socks.”
“Why socks?”
“Because everyone should know how to make at least one useful thing.”
“Why socks?”
My first attempt looked nothing like a sock.
Margaret laughed until she had to put down her needles.
“Don’t worry, Jo. We’ll get there.”
Nobody had called me Jo before.
Somehow, it sounded right coming from her.
Nobody had called me Jo before.
After my divorce, I’d wondered how I’d become so invisible while trying to keep my marriage together.
Margaret noticed me without being asked.
If I looked tired, she made tea.
If I brought cookies, she insisted we share them.
“You’re allowed to enjoy something too, Jo.”
If I looked tired, she made tea.
One Saturday, Margaret was showing me how to fix a dropped stitch when the telephone rang.
She glanced at the screen and let it ring.
“Not answering?”
“Not today, Jo.”
She glanced at the screen.
“Everything all right?”
She picked up her knitting.
“Now, where were we?”
But there was one subject she never enjoyed discussing.
Her family.
“Everything all right?”
One afternoon, I noticed a photograph beside her bookshelf.
A younger Margaret stood beside a smiling woman and a little girl.
“Is that your daughter?”
“My sister and her girl. Trina.”
“She’s adorable. Do you see her often?”
“Is that your daughter?”
Margaret picked up the photograph.
“Not anymore.”
“Does she live far away?”
“Far enough, Jo. Are you finishing that sock before Christmas?”
“Not anymore.”
I let the subject drop.
A few months later, I found her sitting beside the telephone.
Her eyes were red.
“Margaret, what’s wrong?”
“Families are complicated, Jo.”
I let the subject drop.
“Tell me about it.”
She looked toward the window.
“Some people leave, and you never understand why.”
I wanted to ask about Trina.
Instead, I made sandwiches and stayed until she smiled again.
“Tell me about it.”
About a year after our first meeting, my phone rang early one morning.
“I’m Margaret’s niece,” the caller said. “My name’s Trina.”
I sat up.
“Is Margaret all right?”
“I’m sorry. She passed away in her sleep.”
“My name’s Trina.”
I looked through my window.
