After decades of quiet dignity in her crumbling Victorian home, elderly Nancy reluctantly accepts help from a local roofer. But his discovery in her childhood home’s chimney forces her to confront a painful family legacy she’s kept hidden since her father’s tragic downfall.
I never meant to be the neighborhood’s guardian angel. That title came later, after everything that happened with the roof and what we found inside it.
It’s funny how life works — sometimes the biggest changes come right when you think you’ve got nothing left to give.
My Victorian house on Maple Street was something special back when Daddy was alive.
These days, the paint peels like sunburned skin, and the porch sags like tired shoulders.
But it’s home and has been since 1952, when Daddy first moved us in, proud as a peacock in his Sunday best.
“Nancy,” he’d say, adjusting his bow tie in the beveled glass of our front door, “remember that integrity is worth more than gold.”
I’d nod, not really understanding what he meant. Not then, anyway.
The house had seen better days, just like I had. After my divorce from Thomas (“It’s not you, Nancy, it’s just… there’s someone else”) I threw myself into maintaining the place.
But time has a way of wearing everything down, even determination.
Mrs. Chen from next door would sometimes bring me dumplings, worry etched on her face. “You work too hard, Nancy.
Let your children help.”
“No children to help,” I’d reply with a practiced smile. “Just me and the house now.”
That always earned me an extra portion of dumplings and a concerned pat on the hand.
The winter rains came early that year, finding every crack in my old roof. I stood in the kitchen, watching water drip into a collection of mixing bowls and pots, each ping like a tiny hammer on my pride.
“This just won’t do,” I muttered to myself.
These days, I talked to myself more often than not.
Living alone will do that to you, especially after 72 years of life and one failed marriage that I try not to think about anymore.
Robert noticed me fussing with those pots one morning. He lived three doors down and had a roofing business that kept him busy enough. I’d watch him sometimes, heading out early in his white truck, tools rattling in the back.
“Ms.
Nancy,” he called out, crossing my lawn. “Couldn’t help but notice you’ve got yourself a problem up there.”
I straightened my cardigan, trying to look more put-together than I felt. “Oh, it’s nothing serious, Robert.
Just a few drips here and there.”
He squinted up at my roof, hands on his hips. “Those ‘few drips’ are gonna turn into bigger problems if we don’t fix them. Let me help.”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“No charge,” he interrupted, holding up a calloused hand.
“Consider it payback for all those times you watched my kids when Sarah was sick.”
My throat tightened.
“Truly, Robert? The cookies I baked them were payment enough?”
“Those chocolate chip cookies might’ve been worth their weight in gold,” he chuckled, “but this is different. Not every service comes with a price tag.
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