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“I have three kids. I’m running errands all day. You’re retired. You just sit inside.”
Heat rose along the back of my neck.
“My electric bill doubled last month, Monica. Doubled. Because of THIS.”
“I’m almost done.”
She gave an irritated laugh.
“Fine. I’ll give you ten bucks if it matters that much. Don’t be greedy, Eleanor. It’s just a little electricity.”
Greedy.
That word stayed with me.
I had spent forty years bringing casseroles to grieving families, watering plants for neighbors on vacation, and helping people without keeping score.
“Please unplug the cable,” I said.
“I’m almost done. Ten more minutes.”
“Now, Monica.”
She sighed as though I were an unreasonable child.
Then she slowly unplugged the cable and started coiling it.
“You know,” she said, “this is why I didn’t ask. I knew you’d make a whole thing out of it.”
I didn’t respond.
I gave her the smallest smile I could manage, turned around, and walked back inside.
After closing the door, I stood in the dark hallway, listening to my own breathing.
Then I walked to the kitchen table.
The electric bill was still sitting beneath the fruit bowl.
Two hundred and twenty-seven dollars.
For years, I had let things go because I was tired.
Because I lived alone.
Because being “the nice one” was easier than confronting someone.
But that night, something changed.
