I nearly choked.
“Oh, stop reacting like that,” she snapped. “I’m old, not immortal.”
Then she explained.
Her health was failing.
She needed help.
Groceries.
Medication.
Rides.
Repairs.
Company.
“And in return?” I asked carefully.
She watched me closely.
“When I’m gone, everything I own goes to you.”
Honestly, it sounded insane.
But I needed the money.
And maybe deeper down, I wanted someone to choose me for once.
So I shook her hand.
At first, our arrangement stayed practical.
I handled errands.
Fixed things around the house.
Sorted medication into labeled containers.
Drove her to appointments.
And she complained through every minute of it.
“You’re late.”
“It’s been three minutes.”
“Still late.”
But slowly, something changed between us.
She started asking me to stay for dinner.
Her cooking was terrible.
Once she served meatloaf so dry I drank four glasses of water trying to survive it.
“This is awful,” I told her honestly.
“Then starve,” she replied without missing a beat.
We watched old game shows together most evenings.
She yelled answers at contestants through the television like pure confidence could somehow reach them.
Some nights, she talked about her younger years.
And eventually, I started talking too.
About foster homes.
About learning not to expect permanence.
