Service had never been all warmth and gratitude.

Sometimes it was carrying heavy bags in freezing rain, or listening to the same story for the tenth time, or filling out another form so a frail neighbor could keep living independently.

Arthur had loved me through those ordinary, imperfect visits.

Perhaps honoring him meant accepting that this work, too, would be imperfect and still worth doing.

The next Sunday I brewed the coffee and opened the door with more patience than I’d had the week before.

PART 19