By the time we discovered how much help she truly needed, there was almost no time left.
Years passed after she died, but the guilt stayed exactly where it had always been.
I never forgave myself for failing to be there for the woman who had always been there for me.
Susan knew my mother had died, although she rarely asked about it.
We had lived across from each other for years.
She waved whenever I checked the mail.
Sometimes she appeared at my door carrying muffins.
Once, when my kitchen sink leaked, she watched me try to repair it for several minutes before informing me that I was holding the wrench backward.
She teased me about that for months.
Then, about a month ago, I noticed something strange.
Susan’s curtains hadn’t opened all day.
I crossed the street and knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again.
“Susan?”
Something scraped inside.
