My mother always taught me to be kind to others and help them when I could. She said compassion costs nothing but can mean everything. I’d always tried to live by that principle. But one decision to follow her advice left me regretting it more than anything else in my life.
It was an ordinary Wednesday morning when the local news interrupted its broadcast with urgent weather alerts. A severe storm was heading straight for the city, and authorities strongly advised everyone to evacuate if possible.
I didn’t need much convincing. I packed a small overnight bag, booked a room at a nearby hotel, and left before the rain started.
From my hotel room, I watched news footage of the streets I knew so well turning into rivers. Cars floated by like toys. I kept whispering prayers under my breath, hoping my home would survive without major damage.
When I finally returned the next afternoon, I was relieved to see my house still standing. The basement had a few inches of water, but nothing a sump pump and a repairman couldn’t handle. Within a day, it was as if the flooding had never happened.
Unfortunately, my neighbor’s home hadn’t been as lucky.
Mr. Leonard Whitaker lived two houses down. He was a man in his early sixties, tall but slightly hunched, with thinning gray hair and a permanent scowl. His windows had been shattered, his roof was partially caved in, and sections of siding had been ripped away by the wind. The place looked like it had been in the middle of a war zone.
Leonard had always kept to himself. In the five years I’d lived here, I’d never seen a wife, children, or even friends visit. He rarely made eye contact with neighbors and avoided small talk like it was contagious.
That day, I saw him wandering around the wreckage of his yard, muttering under his breath, clearly at a loss. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He had no one to help. And my mother’s voice echoed in my mind: Help those who can’t help themselves.
I walked over and gently tapped his shoulder.
He jumped back like I’d jabbed him with a cattle prod. “Good Lord! What do you think you’re doing?” he barked.
“It’s just me — your neighbor, Julia,” I said, trying to sound friendly.
“I don’t care who you are. Why are you on my property?” His tone was sharp and defensive.
I swallowed my discomfort. “I just… wanted to offer you a place to stay while your house is repaired. I’ve got a spare room, and I’m out most of the day, so you’d have privacy.”
His expression softened — just slightly. “Really?”
“Yes. It’s no trouble,” I assured him.
He didn’t respond, just turned and walked back into his ruined house. I stood there for a moment, unsure whether he’d accepted or rejected my offer.
Half an hour later, my doorbell rang.
I opened the door to find Leonard standing there with a worn leather suitcase.
“Well,” he said, “is everything ready?”
“I… wasn’t sure you’d decided to stay,” I admitted.
“I thought I made myself clear,” he replied irritably, pushing past me into the foyer.
I showed him to the guest room on the first floor, but before I could set his suitcase down, he shoved it into my hands. “Here. You can carry that.”
“I’ll bring you fresh bedding and towels so you can make up the bed,” I told him.
“I’m not making the bed. You’re the woman here,” he grumbled.
I stared at him, caught between disbelief and irritation. “Don’t you make your own bed at home?”
“Sure, when I’m alone. But I’m a guest now,” he said, as though that explained everything.
I forced a polite smile and went to get the linens, telling myself he was probably stressed and not used to relying on anyone. But within days, I realized this wasn’t just stress — it was who he was.
Living with Leonard was like being stuck in a sitcom written by someone who hated women.
He stayed up until two or three in the morning watching TV at full volume. He never cleaned up after himself, left dirty dishes piled in the sink, and scattered his belongings across every surface.
The phrase “You’re a woman” became his justification for everything — from refusing to do laundry to leaving socks in the middle of the living room.
I kept repeating my mother’s advice in my head, but my patience was wearing dangerously thin.
The breaking point came one evening while I was cooking roast chicken and potatoes — his favorite, not mine. He hovered in the kitchen, criticizing every move I made, from how I seasoned the meat to how I chopped the vegetables.
As I reached for a jar of paprika on the top shelf, my head brushed against the range hood. Something soft and damp fell onto my hair.
It was one of Leonard’s dirty socks.
“WHAT in the world?!” I shrieked, flinging it across the kitchen.
Leonard strolled in. “What’s your problem? I’ve got a headache.”
“Why was your sock on the exhaust fan?!” I demanded.
“Oh, I stepped on something wet earlier and took it off. Probably your fault for not cleaning the floor properly,” he said, utterly unfazed.
“My fault?” My voice rose an octave. “Leonard, I took you in so you wouldn’t have to sleep in your wrecked house. I didn’t agree to be your maid!”
“You’re a woman. Housework’s your job,” he said matter-of-factly.
That was it. My last thread of patience snapped. “Pack your things. You’re leaving — tonight.”
He tried to argue, but I was already shoving his clothes into his suitcase.
“You’d just throw me out like this?” he shouted.
“You’ve done nothing but insult me and treat me like a servant. You don’t appreciate kindness, so yes — you’re leaving.”
I grabbed a decorative bottle containing a model ship that he’d brought with him, intending to toss it into the bag, but he snatched it from my hands like it was made of gold.
“Don’t you dare touch that, witch!” he roared.
I froze, shocked — not just at his words but at the sudden glisten of tears in his eyes.
Attached to the bottle’s neck was a small paper tag in childish handwriting: Dad and me’s masterpiece.
“You have a child?” I asked quietly.
“None of your business,” he muttered.
“Then why have I never seen them visit? Why didn’t you stay with family after the storm?”
His jaw clenched. “Because I ruined everything.”
He told me, in a voice that was more defeated than angry, about his son, Matthew.
When Matthew was young, Leonard’s wife left him, taking the boy with her. They still saw each other regularly until Matthew was in high school. That’s when Matthew told his father he wanted to become a dancer.
“I told him it wasn’t manly,” Leonard admitted. “Told him to choose — dancing or me. He chose dancing. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years?” I said, horrified. “You’ve avoided your own son for fifteen years because you didn’t like his career choice?”
Leonard sighed. “If I had it to do over again, maybe I’d handle it differently. I don’t know.”
“Then go see him,” I urged. “He might have kids by now.”
“He won’t want to talk to me.”
“Not if you keep avoiding him,” I said. “Here’s the deal — you can stay here if you act like a decent human being. One more sexist comment, and you’re gone.”
In the following days, I couldn’t stop thinking about his son. Eventually, I tracked Matthew down and drove to his address, unsure of what I’d say.
The man who opened the door was tall, lean, and handsome, with a poised presence that could only belong to a performer.
“You’re Matthew Whitaker?” I asked.
“Matthew Cole now. What do you want?” he said flatly.
“I’m your father’s neighbor—”
“Not interested.” He began to close the door.
“Wait! Just give me five minutes.”
He studied me for a moment, then stepped outside. “Fine. Talk.”
We walked to a nearby park, where I told him everything — about the storm, about Leonard staying with me, and about his regret over the fight that ended their relationship.
We talked for over an hour, not just about Leonard but about Matthew’s career, my own work, and life in general. He was warm and funny, nothing like the gruff man who’d raised him.
When we returned to his house, Matthew said, “I’ll meet with him — on two conditions. One, he has to come to me. Two, you go on a date with me.”
I felt my cheeks heat. “Deal.”
The next day, I walked into Leonard’s room holding a ship-in-a-bottle kit.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Your ticket to making things right with your son. Pack a bag — we’re going to see him.”
“I’m not going anywhere!”
“Yes, you are. You’ll regret not trying more than you’ll regret rejection.”
An hour later, despite his protests, Leonard was standing on Matthew’s porch. From my car, I watched them exchange an awkward greeting. Leonard handed him the kit, and slowly, they began talking.
Two hours later, they were sitting at the kitchen table, working on the model ship together, laughter mixing with the clink of glasses.
My mother’s words came back to me again: Always help those you can.
And for once, I felt like I’d done exactly the right thing.
