He was also, conveniently or otherwise, my boss at the firm.
“When is Daddy coming home?”
After the funeral, Harold simply kept showing up. Groceries, a new washer when mine broke. Sitting cross-legged on the rug, building Lego castles with Mia while I slept on the couch from complete exhaustion. Or helping with something around the house.
I was deeply grateful.
I was also, if I’m being honest, slightly ashamed of how grateful I had become for his support.
Harold just showed up.
“You know he doesn’t have to do all that,” Rachel, my co-worker and friend, told me the morning before the pool party, cornering me in the office kitchen with two mugs of coffee.
“He’s just being kind, Rach.”
“Alison,” she lowered her voice. “I love Harold. But you’re a young widow on his payroll, and he’s practically living at your house. People are talking. Not mean talk. Just… talk.”
