I was struggling to get by when my dying neighbor offered me a deal: take care of her, and in return, she’d leave everything to me. I agreed, but at her will reading, I got nothing! I thought she’d tricked me, but the next day, her lawyer gave me something that made my knees give out.
I sat in a lawyer’s office across from Mrs. Rhode’s niece. Every few seconds, she looked at me the way people look at gum stuck to a shoe.
The lawyer cleared his throat, opened a folder, and started reading in a flat voice. “The residence on Willow Street will be donated to Saint Matthew’s Outreach Charity.”
I blinked. “What?”
He did not look up. “Personal savings are to be distributed between Saint Matthew’s Church and several charitable organizations. To my niece, I leave my jewelry collection.”
I sat in a lawyer’s office.
I sat still, waiting for my name. Mrs. Rhode had promised I’d get everything if I looked after her for the last years of her life!
The lawyer turned one page, then closed the folder. “That concludes the reading.”
I stared at him. “That’s it? But she promised me…”
A thought hit me so hard it made my stomach drop. Did Mrs. Rhode lie to me?
I stood and hurried out of there before either of them could see me cry.
Did Mrs. Rhode lie to me?
By the time I got back to my rental, my chest hurt.
I went inside, shut the door, and fell across the bed without taking off my boots.
At first, all I felt was anger, then humiliation, then that ugly, familiar feeling of being the idiot in a story everyone else understood before I did.
But under all of that was something worse.
Grief. Because somewhere along the way, I had started to believe I mattered to Mrs. Rhode as much as she mattered to me.
Under all of that was something worse.
I grew up in foster care, so maybe I should have known better.
My mother abandoned me right after I was born, and my father was rotting in prison.
I learned early that adults could say anything and mean nothing. I learned how to pack fast, how to keep my important stuff in one place, and how not to cry in front of strangers if I could help it.
When I aged out, I left with two trash bags full of clothes and no plan.
I ended up in that town because rent was low and nobody asked questions.
Maybe I should have known better.
I worked a couple of bad jobs for worse bosses so I could keep my head above water.
Then I got a job at Joe’s Diner. I liked it right away.
Joe hired me because one of his waitresses quit in the middle of a breakfast rush, and I happened to walk in asking if he needed help.
He looked me up and down and said, “You ever carried three plates at once?”
I said, “No.”
He shrugged. “You got ten minutes to learn.”
Then I got a job at Joe’s Diner.
That was Joe — blunt, mean-looking, built like a fridge, and somehow one of the more decent people I had ever met.
At the end of long shifts, he’d shove a burger and fries at me and say, “Eat before you pass out and make extra paperwork for me.”
Sometimes after closing, I stayed and helped wipe down counters while he complained about suppliers, food costs, broken freezers, and people who ordered eggs “medium-medium-well.”
