When 87-year-old Dorothy Mitchell let go of her home care nurse and hired a tattooed biker instead, her family called her “incompetent.” They threatened to take her to court. But as her neighbor — watching it all unfold from across the hall — I knew the truth they didn’t.
Dorothy had lived in apartment 4B for forty-three years. A widow since 2003, she suffered from Parkinson’s disease and crippling loneliness. Her kids lived in other states and rarely visited. Different nurses came and went every few weeks — polite, efficient, and distant. Dorothy was treated like a task to complete, not a human being.
Then one freezing Tuesday, everything changed.
I saw him through the peephole — a tall, tattooed biker with a beard down to his chest, carrying grocery bags into Dorothy’s apartment. I thought she was in danger until I heard her voice:
“Michael, is that you? Come in! And bring my nosy neighbor too.”
Inside, Dorothy was smiling. She introduced Michael proudly. “He’s my new helper. I fired the agency.”
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