I expected her to be distant.
Instead, she surprised me.
On my first day, she descended the marble staircase slowly, pearls resting elegantly against her neck. When she reached me, she extended her hand with genuine warmth.
“You must be Stanley.”
“Stan, ma’am. Just Stan.”
“Then Stan it is,” she said with a smile. “I hope you’re patient. I move slower these days.”
From that moment on, my assumptions disappeared.
For several weeks, my responsibilities were simple.
I drove her to medical appointments, charity events, lunches with old friends, and every Friday to the cemetery where her husband Arthur was buried.
She never cried at his grave.
Instead, she spoke softly to him, as though he were sitting beside her.
