I expected her to be cold and distant.
Instead, she surprised me.
On my first day, she descended the marble staircase slowly, pearls resting elegantly against her neck.
When she reached me, she extended her hand warmly.
“You must be Stanley.”
“Stan, ma’am. Just Stan.”
“Then Stan it is,” she replied with a smile. “I hope you’re patient. I move slower these days.”
From that moment, my assumptions disappeared.
For weeks, my job was simple.
I drove her to medical appointments, charity events, lunches with old friends, and every Friday to the cemetery where her husband Arthur was buried.
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