I had mistaken their friendship for danger because I couldn’t imagine that two people from completely different generations could simply need each other.
Dorothy later joked that she should have told me the truth sooner.
I told her she should have.
She laughed.
Then she looked at Alex.
He laughed too.
The tension that had filled the house for weeks was finally gone.
I still visit Dorothy.
I still bring groceries.
I still help with things around the house.
But something has changed.
I don’t treat her as though she is helpless.
And I don’t look at Alex as though he is someone who needs to be watched.
Now, when I see him carrying boxes into the basement, I know exactly what he’s doing.
He’s helping Dorothy prepare another delivery for someone who needs it.
And when I see Dorothy sitting at the kitchen table with him, sorting food and toiletries into bags, I no longer see an eighty-three-year-old woman being taken care of.
