The job posting was simple: “Companion needed for elderly woman. Light chores. Good pay.” I was drowning in student debt, so I took it.
Adelaide Crane lived in a crumbling mansion with her two grandsons, Devin and Marcus. They ignored her unless they wanted something. She called them “the vultures” under her breath.
At first, I pitied her. Then I realized she was sharper than she let on.
One afternoon, while weeding her garden, she gripped my wrist. “Help me remove the rot,” she said. Then she pressed an envelope into my hand. “Rent a van. Be here tomorrow at two. Don’t ask questions.”
I didn’t sleep. The envelope sat untouched, heavy with secrets.
The next night, I parked behind the greenhouse as instructed. At 1:55 AM, she slipped out, suitcase in hand. “Drive,” she ordered.
We stopped at a derelict motel. She popped open the suitcase—cash, papers, a velvet bag. “Take this,” she said. “Now, one last favor: Go back tomorrow. Tell them I died.”
I did. Devin barely looked up from his phone. “About time,” he muttered. Marcus asked about the will.
I waited two days, then produced it. The house? Donated. The money? Split between people who’d actually cared for her. Devin and Marcus got nothing.
They raged, threatened me, demanded proof. The lawyer handed them handwritten letters from Ms. Crane:
Devin: You took and took. Never gave. This was never your home.
Marcus: You laughed when I fell. You’ll learn what it’s like to hit the ground alone.
They were gone within days.
Meanwhile, Ms. Crane—now Addie—was settling into a seaside cottage, free for the first time in decades. “Why wait so long?” I asked.
“Hope,” she said. “But hope won’t feed a vulture.”
I used her gift to start a program pairing isolated seniors with young companions. She sends me postcards now, signed with a smiley face.
I never opened that envelope. Some truths don’t need to be seen—just felt.
