Remembering my mother’s lifelong advice to help those in need, I opened my home to him. I thought I was doing a good deed, but I soon realized this would become the biggest test of my patience—and it didn’t take long to see why he lived alone.
My mother always said that kindness should be extended to others whenever possible. One particular day, that lesson came back to me—but in a way that made me wonder if I’d made a mistake.
It started on an ordinary Wednesday. The news warned that a powerful storm was approaching and urged everyone to evacuate if they could. I heeded the warning, booked a hotel room, and spent the day there watching news coverage of the city flooding, praying my home would be spared.
When I finally returned, I was relieved to find my house still standing. The basement had taken on some water, but it was nothing a repairman couldn’t fix. Unfortunately, my neighbor Mr. Harrison wasn’t so lucky.
His home had suffered massive damage—shattered windows, a wrecked roof, and battered walls. I saw him walking around his property, inspecting the destruction. His house was older than mine, which probably explained why it couldn’t withstand the storm’s force.
Mr. Harrison, around 60, lived alone. I’d never seen a wife or children with him, and he kept to himself, never engaging with neighbors. He had no one to turn to, and my heart went out to him. Deciding to step in, I walked over and gently tapped his shoulder.
He startled, spinning around. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, then glared. “What do you want?!”
“It’s me, your neighbor Natalie,” I replied cautiously.
“I don’t care who you are! Why are you on my property?!” he barked.
Trying not to be intimidated, I stammered, “I… just wanted to offer—if you don’t have anywhere to go, you can stay at my place while your house is repaired.”
His expression softened slightly. “Really?”
“Yes. I have a spare room. I’m gone most of the day for work, so you’d have the space to yourself,” I explained.
“Well, thank you,” he said curtly, then turned back toward his house. I wasn’t sure if he had accepted my offer or was merely being polite. I went back home, still uncertain.
About 30 minutes later, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Mr. Harrison standing there with a suitcase. “Well? Is the room ready?” he asked bluntly.
“Uh… I wasn’t sure you’d actually agreed,” I said.
“I think I made myself clear,” he retorted and walked right in.
I led him to the guest room, grateful it was on the first floor so I didn’t have to lug the heavy suitcase he’d shoved into my hands. “I’ll get you some bedding and towels so you can make the bed,” I told him.
“I’m not making the bed. You’re a woman,” he grumbled.
I stared at him. “But you make your own bed at home…”
“That’s because I live alone. Now there’s you, and I’m a guest,” he said flatly.
Swallowing my irritation, I went to fetch the bedding. At first, I chalked his attitude up to stress, but I quickly learned that living with Mr. Harrison was a nightmare.
He stayed up late making noise, never cleaned up after himself, and somehow decided I was his personal servant. The phrase “You’re a woman” came out of his mouth more often than “thank you.” His belongings were strewn everywhere, and dirty laundry appeared in the oddest places.
I tried to remind myself of my mother’s mantra about kindness, but my patience wore thin.
The final straw came one evening while I was cooking his favorite—roast chicken with potatoes. As I reached for spices in an upper cabinet, I bumped my head on the exhaust fan—and a filthy sock dropped onto my head.
“What the—?!” I shrieked, throwing it off.
“What’s your problem? I’ve got a headache,” he said as he wandered in.
“How on earth did your dirty sock end up on the exhaust fan?!” I demanded.
“Oh, I stepped on something wet in the kitchen, so I took it off,” he said casually. “It’s your fault. You should’ve cleaned better.”
That was it. “MY fault? I let you stay here so you wouldn’t be homeless—not to wait on you hand and foot!” I shouted.
“You’re a woman. Housework is your job,” he said, as if it were fact.
I stormed off to the guest room, grabbed his suitcase, and began stuffing his belongings inside. “I’ve been patient, I’ve been kind, but you’ve crossed the line!”
“You’re just going to throw me out?” he protested.
“You don’t appreciate kindness, so yes, I am!” I yelled.
As I was packing, I picked up a decorative bottle-with-a-ship he’d brought. He snatched it from me. “Don’t touch that, witch!” he barked. But then I noticed his eyes welling with tears—a first.
A small tag on the bottle read, in childish handwriting, “My and Dad’s masterpiece.” My voice softened. “Do you have a child?”
“None of your business,” he said sharply.
I pressed on, and eventually, he told me the truth. He had a son, Georgie. His wife had left years ago, taking their son with her, but father and son had stayed in touch until Georgie was in high school—when Georgie announced he wanted to be a dancer. Mr. Harrison had disapproved, told him to choose between dancing and his father, and they hadn’t spoken in nearly 15 years.
I was stunned. “Fifteen years? Over something like that?”
He mumbled that he might do things differently now, but doubted Georgie would want to see him. I told him he should try anyway, and offered to let him stay—on the condition he behave himself.
Later, I quietly tracked down Georgie’s address, drove there, and introduced myself as his father’s neighbor. At first, Georgie tried to shut the door in my face, saying he wanted nothing to do with his father and had even changed his last name. But after some coaxing, he agreed to talk.
We walked through the park as I explained everything—his father’s behavior, his regrets, and his longing to make amends. Georgie shared his life as a professional dancer, and we found ourselves enjoying the conversation. By the time we returned to his house, there was an unexpected connection between us.
Finally, he said he’d agree to see his father—on one condition: that I go on a date with him. I blushed but agreed. He also insisted his father make the first move.
I returned home with a ship-in-a-bottle kit in hand and told Mr. Harrison it was his ticket to making things right. After some grumbling, I got him into the car and drove him to Georgie’s home.
From my car, I watched them greet each other awkwardly, exchange the bottle, and eventually sit together, working on it while sipping something stronger than coffee.
My mother’s words rang in my mind: “Always help those you can.” For the first time, I truly understood how far a single act of kindness—despite the challenges—could reach.