Even one of my friends half-jokingly asked me,
“Jake, are you sure you’re telling us the whole story?”
I didn’t answer.
Because about one thing, they were right.
I really wasn’t telling the whole story.
My name is Jake. I’m 31 years old, and I’ve lived across the street from Susan for five years.
During all that time, I had barely seen her family.
Not on her birthdays.
Not during the holidays.
Not even when she began walking with a cane.
Three weeks ago, I noticed that her morning newspaper was still lying outside her door that evening.
I knocked.
No answer.
When I went inside, I found Susan sitting on the kitchen floor, leaning against the wall.
She was so weak she couldn’t even stand.
At the hospital, the doctor pulled me aside.
“She can’t live alone anymore.”
We called her relatives.
Tom didn’t answer.
Lisa said she was busy with her children.
Another relative promised to come the following day.
Nobody came.
Two days later, I brought Susan to my house.
I turned my spare bedroom into her room. I organized her medication by the hour, learned how to prepare the foods she could still eat, and woke up several times during the night to make sure she was okay.
When her family finally learned where Susan was, their first question wasn’t about her health.
“Has she signed anything?”
Then they asked about the house.
Her bank accounts.
Her will.
And a few days later, they showed up at my door.
“We’re calling the police,” Tom shouted. “And we’re going to find out what you’re really doing with her behind that closed bedroom door.”
At that moment, I heard Susan’s weak voice from inside.
“Jake…”
