She lived alone.
And I was desperate.
That thought shames me more than almost anything that came afterward, because it appeared before I had even carried my first bag upstairs.
I moved in the next morning.
At first, our arrangement was innocent enough. I repaired cabinet doors, repainted the fence, changed light fixtures, and drove Evelyn to appointments when she did not feel comfortable driving herself. In return, she gave me a warm room, three meals a day, and enough dignity that I could finally stop washing my face in gas-station bathrooms.
Within two months, I found another job.
I should have moved out.
I did not.
By then, I had learned more about Evelyn.
The house had no mortgage. Thomas had left her investments. She had savings. She was not enormously wealthy, but she was comfortable enough that she would never need to worry about money.
And she trusted me.
That was when gratitude slowly became calculation.
It happened so gradually that I could lie to myself about it.
I began buying groceries occasionally. I fixed things before she asked. I accompanied her to church events even though I disliked going. When neighbors teased us about being an odd pair, I smiled instead of correcting them.
Evelyn seemed happier.
And I started wondering exactly how much the house was worth.
About eight months after I moved in, Evelyn suffered a minor fall in the garden. She was not seriously hurt, but I drove her to the emergency room and stayed until nearly midnight while doctors examined her hip.
On the drive home, she was unusually quiet.
Then she looked at me.
“Do you ever get lonely?”
The question caught me off guard.
