Back in high school, I had been the “big” grieving kid nobody looked at unless they wanted a laugh.
She shook her head. “I can’t. My brother’s waiting. He’s not well. I’m his only caregiver.”
“Only caregiver?”
“After our mom passed away, it’s just me.” Charlotte forced a tired smile. “Goodnight, sir.”
She hurried back through the rain. I watched from the window as she crossed the driveway to a rusted Mustang parked under the streetlamp. She turned the key, but the car wouldn’t start.
Then she dropped her forehead to the steering wheel, and when her shoulders started shaking, I knew I wasn’t looking at a rough night. I was looking at a hard life.
I grabbed my keys and headed for the door, but before I reached Charlotte, the engine sputtered awake. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand, backed out too fast, and disappeared into the rain.
“I’m his only caregiver.”
I stood in the hallway with cold takeout in my hand and a chest full of old memories.
Twenty years earlier, I was 17 and learning that grief can change a body as fast as it changes a life.
