At first, she resisted. Of course she did. People like her don’t easily relinquish control.
But in the end, she let go.
And I pushed on.
Each step felt heavier than the last. The heat blurred my vision, made my breathing shallow, my body protested in ways I couldn’t ignore. But I kept going.
Because stopping felt worse.
Because for once, helping someone else felt easier than thinking about myself.
When I finally sat down, dizzy and shaky, she handed me a glass of lemonade. Cold. Sweet. Steady.
We sat in silence for a while.
Then she asked, “Who’s in your corner, Ariel?”
And I didn’t lie.
“No one,” I said. “Not anymore.”
She wasn’t pitying me. She wasn’t offering empty comfort.
She looked at me the way she understood.
“Being strong doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone,” she said quietly.
I finished mowing her lawn that day.
She went home.
She collapsed onto her bed, thinking that somehow the world felt a little lighter.
I didn’t know it was the last time I would see her alive.
The next morning, sirens woke me.
Flashing lights. Neighbors gathered. That sharp, electric feeling that something had gone wrong.
When the sheriff knocked on my door, I already knew.
Mrs. Higgins had passed away.
Just like that.
She’s gone.
