“I don’t think I can.”
For the first time, she almost smiled.
“All right. Mrs. Whitaker it is.”
The following Thursday, my check wasn’t $100 anymore.
It was $125.
Her note contained only three words:
Cost of living.
She never mentioned the raise again.
During our fourth year together, everything changed.
I arrived one February morning and saw Margaret’s car parked in the driveway.
Her purse was sitting on the hall table.
Her glasses rested on the kitchen counter, and beside them was a cup of cold tea.
The tea bag was still inside.
Margaret never left a tea bag sitting in her cup.
Immediately, something felt wrong.
“Mrs. Whitaker?”
No response.
I searched downstairs before heading upstairs.
Her bedroom was empty.
The bathroom door stood partly closed.
I pushed it open.
She was lying on the tile floor beside the claw-foot bathtub.
“Mrs. Whitaker!”
Her eyes opened slightly.
“Carly?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
Then she whispered something I have never forgotten.
“It’s Thursday.”
“Yes.”
“I knew you’d come.”
I called emergency services.
She had fallen Tuesday night and injured her hip.
Unable to reach the phone, she had spent more than a day lying on that bathroom floor, waiting.
At the hospital, a nurse asked me:
“Are you family?”
“No.”
