barely noticed.
By the time I reached my tiny rental house three streets over, my chest hurt so badly it felt difficult to breathe. I went inside, shut the door, and collapsed onto the bed without removing my boots.
At first, I felt anger.
Then embarrassment.
Then grief.
Real grief.
Because somewhere between grocery runs and burnt dinners and old game shows, I had stopped seeing Mrs. Rhode as a job.
And started seeing her as family.
That was the dangerous thing about loneliness.
It makes even small kindnesses feel
