Or both. Tell me more about these conversations, she said, pushing the envelope aside for now. Well, yesterday when it was raining, he made me tea. Regular tea? Nothing fancy? Nia added quickly, seeing her mother’s expression. And he asked about you working so hard at both jobs. He seemed sad about that. Relle’s fingers drumed against the table.
Sad how? Like when Ms. Peterson at school found out Jimmy didn’t have lunch money. That kind of sad. Like he wanted to help but wasn’t sure if he should. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence that followed. Roshelle studied her daughter’s face, seeing the earnest concern there, the genuine affection for the old man who lived in that weathered house at the end of the street.
“You really care about him, don’t you?” Relle asked softly. Nia nodded. “He’s lonely, mama. Sometimes his hands shake when he takes the breakfast bag, like he’s not used to people being nice to him.” Relle closed her eyes for a moment, remembering countless acts of kindness from strangers during her own difficult times, times she tried not to think about, memories that stayed locked away in the deepest corners of her mind.
