I was still shaken. We sat together in silence, the room heavy with fear and fatigue. Every sound made me jump. My hands wouldn't stop trembling. My husband pulled me into his arms, and I clung to him like a frightened child. I needed to feel him there—to believe we were really safe now.
Thankfully, the intruders hadn't taken much. Just a few old things. But that didn't matter. What they stole most was our peace. He quickly got the door rewired and added extra locks too. We tried to sleep that night, but it was broken and restless. I kept waking up at every creak, every whisper of wind. His arms were tight around me, like he could shield me from the nightmares.
The next morning, everything looked the same—but nothing felt the same. I tried to go about my routine, but the night lingered in my bones. My husband left for work, and I tried to clean up the mess from the break-in, but I kept losing myself in thought. The futon closet, the sounds, the closeness… everything kept replaying in my head. Ray's voice echoed again and again—"Don't tell your husband we were in there together. He might misunderstand."
At the time, it made sense. I nodded silently, agreeing. I didn't want to cause unnecessary doubts. It wasn't like anything wrong had happened. It was just fear. Just survival. Still… I couldn't meet my husband's eyes fully that day. I wasn't hiding something, I told myself. I was just trying to protect our peace.
When he came home that evening with my favorite food, I smiled the best I could. I was touched. He was trying so hard to cheer me up. I was thankful, but I knew something was off in me. My heart was too heavy. At night, I held him tightly, almost desperate. He probably thought I was scared. And maybe I was. But part of me… I don't know. I just needed to hold on to something that felt right and good.
But the next morning, we saw the old man return. He was walking slowly, with a limp. My heart sank with guilt. I had pushed him. I hadn't meant to hurt him, I was just so scared that day. Seeing him like that… it made something inside me ache.
I asked my husband if we could bring him some fruits—just something small, something kind. At first, he seemed reluctant, but I think he saw how much it meant to me. He agreed, and that warmed my heart. He always tries to understand me, even when he doesn't fully agree.
That evening, we went to the old man's house. The smell hit us before we even knocked—damp, musty, like something rotting. I wanted to turn away, but I stood there, determined. We had to at least say sorry.
He opened the door, and he didn't look well. His face was twisted in pain and irritation, not the usual odd smile he wore. I stepped forward first, softly apologizing, telling him I never meant to hurt him. He didn't speak—just waved us inside and gestured to a dusty old sofa.
We sat, trying not to breathe too deeply.
He lowered himself into a chair with difficulty, groaning as he sat. His hand pressed to his back, his face tight with pain. I couldn't help myself—I leaned forward with concern and asked if he was okay.
He snapped, "No, lady. I'm not okay. You pushed me, and now my back's worse than ever."
My heart dropped. I tried to say something, but he didn't stop. He kept going, telling us how much pain he was in, how life had been so unfair to him. I listened, genuinely sorry. My eyes burned with guilt.
Then he said it—how he couldn't move much, how the doctor told him to rest for a week, how he had no one to help him. No family. No one to cook or clean or even fetch water.
Something inside me tugged.
I looked at him, then at the state of his house. It was horrible, yes, but he was old. Alone. And I had pushed him. Even if it was fear, even if it wasn't entirely my fault… it didn't feel right to walk away.
"If you really need rest for a week," I said, my voice small, "I can help. I'll come by and do the chores. Just until you're better."
I heard my husband sigh next to me. I could feel his gaze, the concern in his silence. But I couldn't back down. I had to do what I felt was right. I had to make up for what I'd done.
The old man smiled—truly smiled this time—and his eyes even looked a little teary.
"You're an angel," he said. "Truly a godsend."
Those words embarrassed me. I wasn't trying to be anything special. Just… human.
On the way home, I tried to explain myself, but my husband stopped me gently. He said he understood. That he respected my decision. That he knew my heart.
But then he added something that made me pause.
"Just be careful around him. If he tries anything—anything strange—tell me. Promise me."
I promised, of course. But I couldn't imagine anything like that. He was just a lonely, hurting old man. And I had hurt him more. Helping him was the least I could do.
That's who I was. That's who I always wanted to be.