I had no idea.
In the first few weeks, Ezra tried to press cash into my palm at the door.
“Anthony, take it. I’m not a charity case.”
“Ezra, I’m already going to the store. It’s the same trip.”
“Then take it for the gas.”
“Next week,” I’d say, knowing I wouldn’t.
Eventually, he stopped offering, and we settled into something better. I’d put the milk in the fridge, the bread on the counter, and we’d sit at his small kitchen table with two mugs between us.
“I’m not a charity case.”
Some Sundays, we talked about his late wife, Margaret, and the garden she used to keep. On others, Ezra asked about my job, my marriage, and whether my wife, Claire, and I had decided on kids. And on some Sundays, we said almost nothing and watched the birds at his feeder.
I didn’t think of it as anything special. It was just what I did on Sundays.
