Evelyn’s coat still smelled faintly like her perfume. Her handwritten recipes sat in a kitchen drawer. I kept Thomas’s old key on a hook beside the new front door even though it opened nothing there.
Eventually, I visited the homeless shelter that received part of her estate.
I intended only to make a donation.
Instead, I started volunteering on Saturdays.
The first winter, a young man came in wearing a torn jacket and boots held together with tape.
I froze when I saw him.
He was angry, defensive, and embarrassed by every kindness offered to him.
He reminded me so much of myself that it physically hurt.
I found him sitting alone with a bowl of soup.
He barely looked up when I approached.
“I don’t need anybody feeling sorry for me.”
I pulled out the chair across from him.
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“I’m not here to feel sorry for you.”
I glanced toward his boots.
“I know a place that sells decent work boots.”
He looked suspicious.
“I can’t afford boots.”
I thought of Evelyn.
I thought of the pair waiting beside the door all those years ago.
Then I smiled.
“You can pay me back when you’re working again.”
He stared at me.
I added, “Or don’t.”
