No family visits. No loud holidays. No cars ever pulling into his driveway.
But he was always kind.
If he saw me struggling with groceries, he would quietly walk over and carry the heavy bags inside.
If something in the yard needed moving, he’d appear with his gardening gloves before I even asked.
Every Christmas morning there was always an envelope in our mailbox.
Inside was twenty dollars and a small note:
“For candy for the girls.”
We weren’t close.
But we were good neighbors.
Then, a few days ago, Mr. Whitmore died.
