The woman seeking assistance was Opal Hargrove, a seventy-four-year-old widow living by herself.
When we met, she wore a navy dress, her white hair neatly arranged. Her sharp eyes seemed capable of noticing things I deliberately avoided revealing.
“Can you cook real home-cooked food?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Can you keep books?”
“Better than I cook.”
One eyebrow rose.
“Then you start tomorrow.”
Before agreeing, I disclosed my criminal history.
Opal considered my admission briefly.
“I asked if you knew how to work, not whether your life has been perfect.”
That evening, I settled into a modest bedroom overlooking her backyard.
For the first time in years, I could shut my own door without another person controlling when it opened.
During those initial days, our arrangement remained entirely professional. I prepared meals, washed clothing, cleaned the rooms, and organized receipts Opal had accumulated inside a shoebox.
She soon realized I knew my way around invoices and financial statements.
