I simply typed:
No problem.
At baggage claim, one of my suitcases fell open, scattering James’s clothes across the floor. I dropped to my knees, trying to gather everything while fighting back tears.
An airport employee named Gloria immediately came to help.
“Are you all right?” she asked gently.
“My husband died,” I whispered. “I just buried him.”
She did not offer empty words. She helped repack the suitcase, walked me to the rideshare area, and squeezed my hand before leaving.
In five minutes, a stranger showed me more compassion than my family had shown in weeks.
My driver, Paul, carried the luggage to my porch when we reached home. The moment I stepped inside, I knew something was wrong.
The house was freezing.
I had asked my mother to turn on the heat before I returned, but she had forgotten. The mail had not been collected, and the refrigerator was filled with spoiled food.
Too exhausted to deal with anything else, I curled up in an armchair wearing my coat.
The next morning, I awoke to a strange gurgling sound.
Water was pouring through the kitchen ceiling and spreading across the floor. The freezing weather had caused a pipe to burst because the heating system had been left off.
I shut down the main water valve and called an emergency plumber, but the earliest appointment was days away.
Then I called Troy.
“The house is flooded,” I told him. “There’s no heat, and I can’t stay here. May I use your guest room?”
He hesitated.
“Tonight isn’t good. Lisa has her craft supplies everywhere, and we’re entertaining clients.”
