Then Marjorie noticed me and lifted one hand in greeting.
She smiled, but something about it seemed different.
Smaller.
Less certain.
I told myself I was imagining it.
Within a few weeks, the entire neighborhood had grown fond of Owen.
Mrs. Bell, who lived across the street, called him “the perfect grandson,” even though Marjorie had once told me she had never had children.
People admired the way he swept her porch, collected her mail, and carried heavy groceries into the kitchen.
“It’s good to know she isn’t alone anymore,” Mrs. Bell said one afternoon. “Most young people are too busy to care for someone her age. That boy was raised properly.”
I wanted to agree.
At first, I almost did.
For illustrative purposes only
Part 2: The Empty Porch
When I asked Marjorie about Owen, she gave me a vague smile.
“He’s helping me organize a few things.”
