I moved into 4A two years ago. I’m a journalist working from home, and I started noticing patterns. The home care agency rotated nurses constantly. They fed her, bathed her, handed over her medications, and left. Dorothy tried to connect, but they were there to do a job, not to listen.
Eventually, she began leaving her door slightly open during the day. Just a crack—enough to hear footsteps, enough to feel less alone. I’d wave when I passed. Sometimes I’d stop to chat. She told me about George, a Korean War veteran, about her children “too busy to visit,” and about the travels she once took, now reduced to struggling just to reach the mailbox.
It was a Tuesday in January. I heard her door creak and peeked through my peephole. There he was—at least 6’4”, tattooed from head to wrist, chest-length beard, leather vest, arms full of groceries.
I assumed the worst. “Can I help you?” I asked, opening my door.
He turned and smiled—a smile that softened every intimidating feature. “I’m helping Miss Dorothy with her groceries. She called me.Continue reading…
