Dorothy interrupted. “And when we got to my apartment, I tried to give him my purse. Thought that’s what he wanted. The man who carried me up the stairs. I assumed he was doing it for money.” Her voice got quiet. “That’s what I’ve learned. Everyone wants something.”
Michael continued. “I told her I didn’t want money. She asked why I helped her then. I said because she needed help and I was there.” He paused. “She started crying. Said nobody had done something for her without wanting payment or recognition in ten years.”
“I asked him to stay for tea,” Dorothy said. “And he did. For two hours. We talked about everything. His motorcycle club. His work as a carpenter. His daughter. My husband. My life. Real conversation. The kind I hadn’t had since George died.”
“When I left, she asked if I’d come back,” Michael said. “So I did. The next day. And the day after that. After a week, she fired her home care nurse and asked if I’d help her instead.”
I was stunned. “But the agency, they’re professionals. They’re trained.” Dorothy’s expression hardened. “They’re strangers who come into my home, treat me like a task on their checklist, and leave. Michael treats me like a person.”
