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“Your mother,” I continued, “hasn’t looked this alive in months. Your agency treated her like furniture. She sat in silence. Do you know what she fears most? Dying alone, staring at a wall. That’s exactly what you were paying for.”
Helen scoffed. “And he’s better? He’s probably robbing her.”
Silence.
“He knows she plays ‘Sentimental Journey’ at 4 PM. He knows George’s service in Korea. He lets her tell the same stories repeatedly—not because she forgets, but because she wants to be remembered.”
Michael finally spoke. “I’m not here for her money. Check my timesheets.”
Mark frowned. “How do we know you’re not an ex-con?”
Michael looked down, then pulled out a worn wallet with a faded photo of a younger woman who looked like Dorothy.
“This was my mother,” he said, voice cracking. “She had Parkinson’s too. I was a lousy son, always on the road. I thought I had time. She died alone. I never got to say goodbye. Never got her crackers. This isn’t a job—it’s penance. Your mother is giving me a second chance.”
Dorothy reached for his hand. “He’s not an ex-con,” she whispered. “He’s a promise-keeper. He made a promise to his mother. And he’s keeping it—with me.”
The children were stunned. Legal threats vanished.
Dorothy smiled through tears. “Yes. And Michael remembers. You didn’t.”
I returned to my apartment, door closed, but I kept listening.
No more shouting. Just voices. Then laughter.
I peeked out. The door to 4B was open. The kids were at the table. Michael was making tea. Dorothy told a story about George, voice strong and sure.
No one checked their phones. No one watched the clock.
Michael hadn’t just saved Dorothy from loneliness—he’d brought her back to life. And in doing so, he gave her children back to her.
For the first time, I didn’t need to watch. She wasn’t alone anymore.
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