The night the storm rolled in, the wind howled like it wanted to rip the whole world apart. My mom’s words echoed in my mind—“Always help others when you can.” I had no idea that following that advice this time would test my patience like never before.
It started on an ordinary Wednesday. The news warned everyone in the city: a fierce storm was on the way, and we should leave if possible. I packed a small bag, checked my doors twice, and drove to a hotel. From there, I sat in front of the TV, watching the news as my city slowly disappeared under water. My stomach twisted with worry.
When it was finally safe to return, I rushed home, bracing myself for the worst. Miraculously, my house was still standing. A little water in the basement, nothing serious. I called a repairman, got it fixed in no time… but my neighbor, Mr. Harrison, wasn’t so lucky.
His house looked like it had been punched in the face by the storm—windows shattered, roof broken, walls cracked. I spotted him walking around, inspecting the damage.
Mr. Harrison was about sixty, always alone, no wife, no kids that I knew of. He kept to himself, never waved, never chatted with the neighbors. Seeing him like that, I couldn’t just ignore him.
I walked up, gently tapped his shoulder. He jumped like I’d shocked him with electricity.
“Oh my God!” he gasped, spinning around.
“It’s me, your neighbor, Natalie,” I said with a smile.
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t care who you are! Why are you on my property?!”
I froze. “I… I just wanted to offer… if you have nowhere to stay, I can give you a room until your house gets fixed.”
He paused, the sharp edge in his voice softening. “Really?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got a spare room. I’m at work most of the day anyway, so you’d have the place to yourself.”
“Well… thank you,” he said, then turned and walked back inside.
I stood there, confused. Did that mean yes or no? I gave up, went home—only for my doorbell to ring thirty minutes later.
I opened it to find Mr. Harrison holding a suitcase. “Well, what’s the deal? Is everything ready?”
“I… wasn’t sure you’d agreed—”
“I think I was clear enough,” he interrupted and pushed past me into the house.
I led him to the guest room. He shoved the suitcase into my hands like I was his bellhop.
“I’ll bring bedding and towels,” I said.
“I’m not making the bed. You’re a woman,” he grumbled.
“What?!” I blurted out.
“I lived alone before, but now I’m a guest. That’s your job,” he said flatly.
I bit my tongue, fetched the bedding, and tried to convince myself he was just stressed. Oh, how wrong I was.
From day one, living with Mr. Harrison was a nightmare. He stayed up half the night making noise, left messes everywhere, and constantly reminded me, “You’re a woman” whenever chores came up. Dirty clothes on the floor, dishes stacked in the sink, belongings scattered across the house—it was like living with a hurricane.
I tried to keep my cool… until the sock incident.
One evening, I was making roast chicken and potatoes—his favorite—when I reached up for the spices and bumped my head on the exhaust fan. Something fell onto my head. I grabbed it and froze. It was one of his filthy socks.
“WHAT THE—?!” I screamed, flinging it across the room.
“What’s your problem? I’ve got a headache,” he said, strolling in.
“How did your sock even get up there?!” I demanded.
“Oh, I stepped on something wet, so I took it off. Your fault for not cleaning better,” he shrugged.
“My fault?!” I exploded. “I gave you a roof over your head, not a maid!”
“You’re a woman. You’re supposed to do the housework,” he said like it was the law.
“That’s it!” I snapped. I stormed into his room, started packing his things.
“You’re throwing me out?!” he shouted.
“You don’t appreciate kindness. Yes, I am!” I fired back.
I grabbed a bottle with a tiny ship inside, something he’d brought with him. Before I could toss it in, he yanked it away from me.
“Don’t touch that, witch!” he barked.
I froze, staring. The bottle had a tag in childlike handwriting: “My and Dad’s masterpiece.”
“Do you… have a kid?” I asked softly.
“None of your business,” he growled.
So I pushed. Eventually, the story came out: He had a son, Georgie. His wife left years ago, taking Georgie with her. They stayed in touch until Georgie was in high school—when he decided to become a dancer. Mr. Harrison thought it wasn’t “manly” and gave him an ultimatum: dancing or his father. Georgie chose dancing. That was fifteen years ago.
“You’ve cut him off for fifteen years over that?!” I shouted.
He stared at the floor. “I’d probably do things differently now… maybe.”
“Then go talk to him,” I said.
“He won’t want to see me.”
“You won’t know unless you try,” I told him. “You can stay here, but one more outburst and you’re gone.”
He nodded.
But I couldn’t shake it. So I asked around, found Georgie’s address, and drove there.
When I knocked, a tall, handsome man opened the door.
“Are you Georgie?” I asked.
“It’s George. What do you want?” he said coldly.
“I’m your dad’s neighbor—”
He tried to close the door. I stopped him. “Please, just hear me out.”
George studied me. “Name?”
“Natalie.”
He sighed. “I don’t want anything to do with him. Changed my last name to my mom’s. So unless he’s dead—and even if he is—you can leave.”
“Wow. You’re really alike,” I said before I could stop myself.
“We are NOT,” he snapped, then softened.
I told him about living with Mr. Harrison and how he regretted the past. Somehow, we ended up walking in the park, talking for hours—about his dance career, my work, life. It felt… nice. Really nice.
When we got back to his house, George said, “I’ll meet him. But on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You go on a date with me.”
I laughed. “Deal.”
“And I won’t go to him. He has to come to me,” George added.
“That’s two conditions.”
“Fine. Two.” He kissed my hand, leaving me a little dizzy.
When I got home, I handed Mr. Harrison a new bottle-with-ship kit.
“What’s this?”
“Your chance to make things right. Pack your bags.”
“I’m not going anywhere—”
“Yes, you are. You’ll regret not doing this for the rest of your life.”
An hour later, I watched from my car as George opened the door. The two stood awkwardly, then Mr. Harrison handed him the kit. Two hours later, they were inside, side by side, building the ship and sharing drinks.
My mom’s words came back again—Always help those you can.
This time, maybe that kindness had changed more than one life.