I Brought Groceries to My Elderly Neighbor Every Sunday for Twelve Years. After His Funeral, His Lawyer Handed Me a Suitcase I Never Expected.

PART 17

The first Sunday was a mess in all the best ways.

The coffee urn stopped working twenty minutes before the doors opened.

Maya had written the wrong time on half the flyers.

Mrs.

Alvarez arrived with enough breakfast casserole for fifty people, and George forgot the screwdriver he needed to fix the new handrail.

At nine o’clock there were only three guests.

I stood near the window pretending not to worry.