"I thought he'd laugh," she admitted. "Or look at me with pity."
Alex shook his head.
"I just picked everything up."
He had gathered the scattered items, placed them carefully back inside the damaged box, and carried it into the house.
He didn't make jokes.
He didn't ask intrusive questions.
He didn't act uncomfortable.
Before leaving, he simply asked whether Dorothy needed help with anything else.
That might have been the end of their interaction.
But while placing the package on the kitchen counter, Alex happened to notice her refrigerator door standing open.
There was almost nothing inside.
A small carton of milk.
Half a loaf of bread.
Two eggs.
A container of leftover soup.
"She told me she'd been meaning to shop," Alex said.
Dorothy looked away.
"I had."
"But she'd been putting it off because her knee was bothering her."
I frowned.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Dorothy gave me a tired look.
"Because you already do so much."
That evening, after finishing his delivery route, Alex returned with a small bag of groceries.
He had purchased bread, fruit, eggs, milk, and a few ready-to-prepare meals with his own money.
Dorothy had tried to pay him back.
He refused.
The following day, he stopped by to ask whether she had everything she needed.
Then he noticed a loose cabinet handle.
He fixed it.
A few days later, he repaired a sticking window.
Soon, what had started as an accidental delivery became an unexpected friendship.
They talked over tea.
Dorothy asked about his work.
Alex listened to stories about Walter, her childhood, and the neighborhood as it had looked decades earlier.
And for the first time in a long while, Dorothy felt that someone was visiting because he genuinely wanted to spend time with her—not simply because she needed assistance.
Chapter 6: The Love I Had Misunderstood
I looked from Dorothy to Alex.
"So when you told me you'd fallen in love with him..."
Dorothy's lips curved into a smile.
"Oh, Greta."
She laughed softly.
"Not the way you were imagining."
I felt my cheeks grow warm.
"But you said—"
"I know exactly what I said."
She looked almost mischievous.
"I wanted to see whether you would make that face."
"What face?"
"The one you're making now."
Even Alex smiled.
Dorothy reached for his hand.
"I love this young man like the grandson I never had."
For a moment, I said nothing.
I had spent weeks imagining manipulation, deception, and danger.
I had assumed the worst because I couldn't understand why a young man would voluntarily spend so much time with an elderly woman.
Dorothy noticed my expression.
"You thought he was taking advantage of me."
I hesitated.
"Yes."
Alex looked down.
"I figured you did."
"I'm sorry," I said, although the words felt inadequate.
He shook his head.
"You were trying to protect her."
That simple response made me feel even worse.
Dorothy squeezed his hand.
"Alex has been through more than someone his age should have to experience."
He looked uncomfortable.
"Dot, you don't have to—"
"She deserves to understand."
Then Dorothy told me his story.
Alex's mother had died when he was sixteen.
She had been the person who held his small family together, and her death left him struggling with a grief he didn't know how to express.
His father, already distant, gradually disappeared from his life.
At first, Alex stayed with relatives.
But none of those arrangements lasted.
One household was already overcrowded. Another relative could only accommodate him temporarily.
Eventually, Alex began renting cheap rooms whenever he had enough money.
When work became inconsistent or bills increased unexpectedly, he sometimes slept in his car.
He worked long hours delivering packages because it was one of the few jobs that offered him reasonably steady income.
He rarely complained.
According to Dorothy, he had learned to survive by pretending he didn't need anyone.
"He reminds me of Walter when we first met," she said.
Alex looked surprised.
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. Too proud to ask for help and far too stubborn to admit when he was hungry."
He smiled faintly.
Dorothy explained how she had discovered his living situation.
One afternoon, Alex had arrived after work to repair a broken lamp.
When Dorothy stepped outside to retrieve something from her porch, she noticed clothes, blankets, toiletries, and several bags packed into the back seat of his car.
At first, she assumed he was moving.
Then she noticed a pillow.
And a folded blanket on the passenger seat.
She asked him where he was staying.
Alex tried to avoid the question.
But Dorothy had known enough lonely people to recognize when someone was hiding hardship behind a smile.
Eventually, he admitted the truth.
He had been sleeping in his car for several nights.
Dorothy went quiet.
Then she told him to bring his belongings inside.
"I couldn't just move in," Alex said.
"He argued for almost an hour," Dorothy recalled.
I could easily imagine that conversation.
Dorothy was gentle, but once she made up her mind, changing it was nearly impossible.
"I had three empty bedrooms," she continued. "Three bedrooms collecting dust while this boy was sleeping in a parking lot."
She looked directly at me.
"What good is a house if you can't make someone feel safe inside it?"
Alex's eyes lowered.
"She gave me a room."
"Temporarily," Dorothy corrected. "Until you get properly settled."
He smiled.
"She also made me eat dinner every night."
"And vegetables," Dorothy added.
I laughed despite myself.
That sounded exactly like her.
She had fed me vegetables when I was a child.
Now she was doing the same thing for someone who needed a family just as much as I once had.
Chapter 7: What Was Hidden in the Basement
There was still one part of the story I didn't understand.
"The boxes," I said. "What were all those packages downstairs?"
Dorothy's expression changed.
A spark of excitement returned to her eyes.
"Ah. That's my project."
"Your project?"
She nodded.