I didn’t take the soup. I thought maybe she was just being polite.
I started leaving notes back. Short ones, on the back of her notes, in my own messy handwriting.
Mrs. W — Out of dish soap. Bought more. Receipt is under the salt shaker. — C.
Mrs. W — The kitchen faucet is dripping. Might need a new washer. — C.
Mrs. W — Found an earring under the couch cushion. Pearl. It’s in the little dish by the door. — C.
Sometimes she was home. On those days, she mostly stayed out of my way. She’d sit in the living room with a book, or out on the back porch with a cup of tea. When I passed her, she’d nod. When I finished, she’d walk through the house and say thank you.
Once in a while, she’d ask a question.
“How is your daughter?”
“She’s good. She’s in fourth grade. She likes to draw.”
