“She stayed five years,” I said. “I treated her like a daughter.”
“Five years,” he echoed.
“When she was ready, I helped her get a little place,” I said.
“Used my savings. Helped her start a small business. She worked hard.
She did good. She never forgot you.”
He stared at the floor.
“Ten years ago,” he murmured. “When she died.”
“I was at the funeral,” I said.
“In the back. You gave a fine speech. You were already successful.
I was proud. I didn’t need you to know me. It was enough that she’d been loved.”
His face crumpled.
“She used to tell me,” he said, voice cracking, “‘There was a man who saved us when no one else would.’ I thought she meant a priest.
A social worker. I never thought…”
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