“I am giving it to you because for eight years, I slept better knowing you lived ten steps away.”
My vision blurred.
Olive reached across and squeezed my hand.
The letter continued.
“You probably thought you were saving me from mowing.”
There was a pause between the lines.
“Justin, you were saving me from Saturdays.”
I lowered the letter.
Outside, a gentle breeze stirred Theresa’s two sunflowers.
One leaned softly toward the other.
When I could read again, I continued.
“Saturdays belonged to Harold.
He made coffee too strong.
He cut the grass in crooked lines.
He complained about my pie crust and ate two slices anyway.
After he died, Saturday became the longest day of my week.”
The room had fallen silent.
“The first morning you crossed the driveway, I truly did need help.
The second Saturday, perhaps I did not.
By the third, I understood something I was too proud to admit.”
I already knew what the next sentence would say.
“Every Friday, I left part of the lawn unfinished so there would always be a reason for you to come back.”
I stared at the words.
Fanny covered her mouth.
Suddenly, every small detail from those years made perfect sense.
The half-finished lawn waiting every Saturday.
The weeks when the grass barely needed cutting.
The tea already prepared before I arrived.
Theresa had never truly needed help with the yard.
She had simply needed a reason to look forward to Saturday.
“I hope you do not think that was dishonest,” she wrote. “Lonely people sometimes hide invitations inside ordinary problems.”
Olive brushed away a tear.
Roger looked up at me.
“Was Miss Theresa lonely?”
“Sometimes, buddy,” I answered softly.
“Even with us?”
SEE NEXT PAGE >>>
To see the full cooking instructions, go to the next page or click the Open button (>) and don't forget to SHARE it with your friends on Facebook.
