When a fierce storm left my quiet neighbor without a roof over his head, I did what my mom always taught me—offered help. I had no idea that letting him stay in my home would turn into the biggest test of patience I’d ever faced. It didn’t take long to understand why he lived alone.
My mom always taught me to be kind to others and help them out. And one day, that advice from her made me regret everything I had ever done.
On a regular Wednesday, the news reported that a storm was heading toward the city and advised everyone to leave if they could.
So, I left, spent the day at a hotel, and watched the news as my city was flooded, praying my house would be okay.
When I came back, thankfully, my house was intact. The basement was a little flooded, but it wasn’t anything serious.
I called a repairman, and the problem was solved. But the same couldn’t be said about my neighbor Mr. Harrison’s house.
Almost all his windows were smashed, and the walls and roof were damaged.
Mr. Harrison walked around his house, assessing the damage. His house was older than mine, probably why it couldn’t withstand the storm.
Mr. Harrison was a lonely 60-year-old man. He didn’t have a wife, and I’d never seen any children visit him, so I assumed he had no kids either.
He didn’t interact with the neighbors and kept to himself. I felt so sorry for him. He didn’t have anyone to ask for help, so I decided I’d be the one to offer.
I walked up to his property and tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped in surprise. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, turning to face me.
“What do you want?!” he snapped, clearly annoyed.
“Mr. Harrison, it’s me, your neighbor, Natalie,” I said.
“I don’t care who you are! Why are you on my property?!” he shouted.
“I… I… just wanted to offer… if you have nowhere to stay, I wanted to invite you to stay with me for a while,” I stammered.
“Really?” Mr. Harrison asked, his tone softer now.
“Yes, I have a spare room. Plus, I’m at work most of the day, so if you need a place to stay while your house gets fixed, you’re welcome to stay with me,” I explained.
“Well, thank you,” he said, and without another word, he went inside his house.
I wasn’t sure what that meant. Had he accepted my offer, or was he just thanking me? I stood there for a few minutes, confused, then walked home.
Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find Mr. Harrison standing there, holding a suitcase.
“Well, what’s the deal? Is everything ready?” he asked.
“Um… I didn’t quite understand if you agreed or not…” I said.
“I think I was clear enough,” Mr. Harrison replied, irritated, and walked inside.
I led him to the guest room, thankfully on the first floor, so I didn’t have to carry his suitcase, which he had unceremoniously shoved into my hands.
“I’ll bring you some bedding so you can make the bed and towels,” I said.
“I’m not making the bed. You’re a woman!” Mr. Harrison grumbled.
“But you made your bed at home…” I replied, flustered.
“Yeah, I live alone. Now, there’s you, and I’m a guest,” he said.
“Fine…” I muttered, heading to grab the bedding.
I tried to excuse his behavior, thinking it was stress or maybe just because he’d been alone for so long, but oh, how wrong I was.
Living under the same roof as Mr. Harrison was a nightmare. He stayed up late making noise, never cleaned up after himself, and for some reason, he’d decided that I was supposed to serve him.
The phrase “You’re a woman” came out of his mouth more often than “hello.”
He scattered his things all over the house and left his dirty clothes everywhere.
I tried to repeat my mom’s words in my head that everyone deserves kindness, but my patience was running thin.
And then one day, it snapped. I was in the kitchen making dinner, roast chicken and potatoes, of course, just the way Mr. Harrison liked it.
I couldn’t even season the food without him criticizing me, claiming I was doing it wrong.
I reached up for some spices in the top cabinet, and as I did, I accidentally bumped my head on the exhaust fan. In that moment, one of Mr. Harrison’s dirty socks fell onto my head.
“WHAT THE—?!” I screamed, quickly tossing the sock off.
“What’s your problem? I have a headache!” Mr. Harrison said, walking into the kitchen.
“I’m not even going to ask why. HOW? How did your dirty sock end up on the exhaust fan?!” I yelled.
“Oh, I must’ve stepped on something wet on the kitchen floor, so I took it off,” Mr. Harrison said nonchalantly. “It’s your fault, though. You should’ve cleaned better,” he added.
“My fault?! My fault?! I offered you help! A roof over your head so you wouldn’t have to sleep on the streets, not to be your maid!” I screamed.
“You’re a woman. You’re supposed to do the housework,” Mr. Harrison said, matter-of-factly.
“That’s it! I’m done!” I yelled and stormed to the guest room.
“I’ve tried to be patient! I’ve tried to be kind! But you’re crossing every line!” I shouted as I packed his things into his suitcase.
“You’re just going to throw me out like this?!” Mr. Harrison yelled.
“You don’t appreciate kindness, so yeah, I’m throwing you out!” I shouted.
I grabbed the bottle with a ship inside that Mr. Harrison had brought with him and was about to toss it into his suitcase when he suddenly snatched it from my hands.
“Don’t touch that, witch!” Mr. Harrison screamed, causing my jaw to drop.
“You know what?! It’s no wonder you’re so lonely! You’re impossible to be around! You’re the worst person I’ve ever known, and I feel sorry for anyone who’s ever known you!” I yelled.
Mr. Harrison pulled the bottle closer to himself, and I noticed tears welling up in his eyes.
“Oh, don’t try to play the pity card,” I said, but he stayed silent.
This was strange. Mr. Harrison never kept quiet. He always had a sharp retort. I looked at the bottle and saw a tag tied to the neck, with childlike handwriting that said, “My and Dad’s masterpiece.” My eyebrows shot up in shock.
“Do you have a kid?” I asked.
“None of your business!” Mr. Harrison snapped.
“Then why didn’t you go to your family? Why have I never seen anyone visit you?” I asked.
“Because I ruined everything!” Mr. Harrison shouted.
“What did you ruin?” I asked.
“I had… I have a son, Georgie. First, his mom left me because I worked all the time and took Georgie with her. But we stayed in touch until he was in high school,” Mr. Harrison said.
“And what happened then?” I asked.
“Georgie decided he wanted to be a dancer!” Mr. Harrison said, outraged. “I told him it wasn’t a manly thing to do, but he didn’t listen! So I told him to choose—dancing or me!” he yelled. “I haven’t seen him since.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Almost 15 years ago,” Mr. Harrison said quietly.
“15 years?! You haven’t spoken to your own son 15 years because he chose something he loved, and you didn’t approve?!” I screamed.
“Now, I’d probably do things differently, I don’t know,” Mr. Harrison muttered.
“Then go see him. Talk to your son,” I said. “Maybe you have grandchildren by now.”
“He won’t want to talk to me,” Mr. Harrison said.
I sighed deeply. “You can stay, but only if you behave normally,” I said. “One more outburst from you, and I’ll throw you out, no questions asked.”
“Fine, thank you,” Mr. Harrison said.
“And pick up your things,” I added, and he nodded.
Did I feel sorry for Mr. Harrison again? Yes, I did. Did I ask the neighbors about his son? Yes, I did. Did I sit in my car in front of his son’s house? Yes, I did.
I didn’t know what I was going to say to him. “Your dad’s a jerk, but he regrets what he did and misses you?” I wasn’t sure if that was a good idea, but I got out of the car, rang the doorbell, and waited.
The door opened to reveal a tall, slender, incredibly handsome man. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe this was Mr. Harrison’s son.
“Are you Georgie?” I asked.
“George. Yeah. What do you want?” he asked.
“I’m your dad’s neighbor—”
He didn’t even let me finish, immediately starting to close the door on me. “Hey, what are you doing?” I asked.
George opened the door again. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Natalie,” I said.
“Listen, Natalie, I don’t want anything to do with that guy. I even changed my last name to my mom’s. So if he hasn’t died yet, you can leave. And even if he’s dead, you can go too,” George said.
I raised my eyebrows. “Wow, you’re really alike,” I said.
“We are NOT!” he shouted, but then calmed down. “We’re not alike in any way,” George said.
“Maybe not in looks, but in spite, yeah, 100%,” I replied.
“What do you know?” George asked.
“Your dad’s been staying at my place for a month. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. Can we just talk? I’m not asking for much,” I said.
George paused, then stepped out of the house, closing the door behind him. “Okay, let’s talk,” he said.
We went for a walk. George took me to the park, and I told him everything. How terrible it was living with Mr. Harrison, and how he regretted his actions toward George.
But we didn’t just talk about Mr. Harrison. George was a professional dancer, and I asked him all about his job, while he asked about mine and me in general.
Despite having Mr. Harrison’s genes, I felt so good talking to him. This was the best date I’d had in years, and it wasn’t even a date.
We went back to George’s house and stood there in silence, staring into each other’s eyes.
“Okay, I’ll agree to meet with my dad, but on one condition,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You’ll go on a date with me,” George said.
I felt my cheeks flush. “Deal,” I said.
“And I won’t make the first move. Let him come to me,” George said.
“That’s two conditions,” I said.
“Well, then two conditions,” George said, then took my hand and kissed it gently before turning and walking back into his house.
I felt like fireworks were going off inside me. Now, Mr. Harrison should definitely make up with his son. Because this could be the love of my life.
I went home, but not empty-handed. I was holding a bottle-with-ship kit.
“What’s this?” Mr. Harrison asked.
“Your way to make things right with your son. Pack your bags,” I said.
“I’m not going anywhere!”
“You are! You have to make this move, or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
“I’ll regret it if I go and he doesn’t want to see me,” Mr. Harrison said.
“You’ll regret not doing it more,” I said. “Come on, pack your stuff.”
Mr. Harrison went to his room. “I don’t even know where he lives. Where are we going?” he shouted from his room.
“I know, hurry up!” I shouted back.
Despite all the grumbling, an hour later, Mr. Harrison was standing at George’s door, holding the bottle kit.
I watched from my car as they awkwardly greeted each other, as Mr. Harrison handed the bottle to George, and then, two hours later, they were putting the ship together, drinking something stronger than coffee.
“Always help those you can,” my mom’s words echoed in my mind, and I smiled.
