THE FOOTLOCKER
“Before he passed, he left one final instruction about you.”
Mr. Castellant put on his glasses.
“I’ll read it exactly as he dictated it, because he was very specific.”
I need to explain, though, before any of this makes sense.
I was struggling.
I was finishing college, drowning in student loans, and helping my mom care for my younger brother, Miles, who had serious kidney problems.
Miles was fourteen, diagnosed three years earlier, spending more time in hospital waiting rooms than any kid his age should ever have to.
I remember the first time a doctoor used the word “transplant” in front of him.
Watching his face carefully for a reaction he was too young to fully process.
Money was always tight.]
My mom worked nonstop to cover his treatments, and I took every extra shift I could between classes.
She’d taken a second job cleaning offices at night.
Coming home exhausted just in time to get a few hours of sleep before her regular shift began again.
I studied on breaks at the diner where I worked, textbooks propped open beside the coffee pot whenever things went quiet enough to allow it.
But when another hospital bill arrived, I saw her face fall and knew we were running out of options.
She sat at the kitchen table that evening, envelope open in front of her.
Staring at the number like it might somehow change if she looked long enough.
I’d never seen her look quite that defeated before, not even during the worst weeks right after Miles’s diagnosis.
That same night, while looking for extra work online, I found a listing that sounded almost ridiculous.
I’d already scrolled through dozens of postings that evening, nothing paying nearly enough to make any real difference for us.
The listing sat buried on page three of my search results, easy to miss.
I might have scrolled past it entirely if I hadn’t been quite so desperate to find something, anything, that could help.
A family in Ashbury Fields was looking for someone around their granddaughter’s age to spend time with an elderly blind veteran.
The pay was incredible, more than double what I made waitressing on weekends.
I read the number three separate times, certain I’d misread a decimal point or misunderstood the payment schedule somehow.
I hadn’t, and that realization alone kept me staring at the screen long after I should have gone to bed.
The catch?
I had to pretend to be his granddaughter.
