At forty years old, peace sounded dangerously close to surrender.
Outside, across the narrow street, James Parker limped slowly toward his mailbox. He wore the same brown coat he had worn for years, shoulders slightly bent, dark hair touched with silver. Everyone in our neighborhood knew James. He fixed broken fences for elderly neighbors. Repaired leaking sinks without charging a cent. Cleared snow from driveways before dawn.
And always alone.
My mother followed my gaze.
“He’s a good man,” she whispered. “You could do far worse.”
I almost laughed.
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