That night, I set the table for one again. But for the first time in months, I spoke into the empty room—not out of grief, but out of memory. I told Ellen she would’ve liked Penny: brave, overwhelmed, determined to protect her child.
A week later, a knock shook my front door.
Two men in black suits stood there, their expressions serious. My heart jumped. But before I could ask what they wanted, Penny stepped forward from behind them—warm, healthy, and smiling.
The men were her brothers.
They had come to thank me.
Penny had gone to the police after our Walmart encounter, filing a report that detailed the danger she had escaped. My small act of kindness had become part of that documentation, and her brothers wanted to express their gratitude. They offered help with anything I needed. I awkwardly waved off the gesture—until Penny softly asked if she could do something for me.
I joked that an apple pie would be enough.
Two days later, she returned holding one still warm from the oven. We sat together at my kitchen table—Ellen’s “company plates” between us—and talked while Lucas slept in his carrier. Penny shared her fears, her hopes, and the custody battle she knew was coming. She asked if I truly believed she could rebuild everything she’d lost.
I told her I’d met parents who barely cared. She was not one of them.
Before leaving, she promised to bring a berry pie on Saturday. I laughed and said I hadn’t looked forward to a Saturday that much in years.
When the door closed behind her, the quiet didn’t feel so heavy.
It felt… alive.
As if kindness had opened a window and let something warm drift back in.
I put on a pot of coffee for Saturday and felt, for the first time since losing Ellen, a flicker of hope returning—gentle, steady, and real.
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