My 6-year-old son emptied his piggy bank to help our elderly neighbor when her house went dark — but the next morning, our yard was covered with piggy banks, patrol cars blocked the street, and one officer handed me a red piggy bank with a war:ning: “Break this open.”

“Not yet,” Oliver said seriously. “I still mix up the meat eaters.”

He giggled. I stepped closer.

“Everything okay?”

Mrs. Adele tucked the envelope behind the rest of her mail.

“Just bills, honey. They come whether you invite them or not.”

“Do you want me to read anything for you?” I asked. “Or go over anything?”

“No, Carmen. Thank you. Elias handles most of that now.”

“Your nephew?”

She nodded.

“Since my eyes got worse, he put everything online.”
“Does he live close?”

“Two hours away.” She gave a small laugh. “He’s busy. I just hope he remembers the electric bill. It’s due today. Companies don’t wait for old ladies to find their reading glasses.”

That made me pause.

“Mrs. Adele, if anything feels wrong, please knock on my door.”

“Oh, Carmen.” She patted my arm. “You already have Oliver, work, groceries, bills. I won’t become another thing for you to carry.”

Oliver looked up at her.