“I’m in trouble financially.”
I remained standing.
“My husband left last year.”
I had known he traveled.
I had not known he left.
“He sends money sometimes.”
She looked toward her house.
“I was trying to keep everything normal for the kids.”
I listened.
No interruptions.
No judgment.
“The car payment was too high.”
“The house is too expensive.”
“The charging station broke.”
“I kept thinking if I could save money here and there…”
She laughed weakly.
“I know how that sounds.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“You hate me.”
“No.”
She seemed surprised.
“I don’t trust you.”
“That is different.”
She looked down.
“I shouldn’t have taken your things.”
“No.”
“Or used your electricity.”
“No.”
“Or water.”
“No.”
She smiled faintly.
“You’re really enjoying this.”
“Less than you think.”
Silence stretched between us.
Then I asked:
“Do you have somewhere to move?”
“My sister has a duplex.”
“That sounds useful.”
“It’s smaller.”
“Smaller is not fatal.”
She laughed.
“No.”
Her expression softened.
“I guess not.”
I did not offer money.
I did not offer my garage.
I did not volunteer to solve anything.
That was another lesson.
Compassion does not require becoming available for exploitation again.
Vanessa moved six weeks later.
On her final day, I watched from my kitchen window while boxes disappeared into a rental truck.
The cheaper car was already loaded with bags.
Her children ran between the house and driveway.
Around noon, somebody knocked.
Vanessa stood outside holding something.
My garden fox.
The white paint had been removed.
Not perfectly.
His green scarf was visible again, though there were pale streaks around the edges.
She handed him to me.
“I had someone strip most of the paint.”
I looked at him.
The crooked ear survived.
“So he’s permanently weird now.”
Vanessa smiled.
“He was already weird.”
“True.”
She hesitated.
Then said:
“I’m sorry, Eleanor.”
I waited.
Not to punish her.
Because I wanted to hear whether anything followed.
