When my cranky neighbor Madeleine wrecked my 17th birthday party, I was furious. But when I threw a rock through her window that night and she didn’t come out to yell, I knew something was wrong. I went inside and found her sitting alone, celebrating her 88th birthday with only her dog Johnny for company.
Madeleine’s tough exterior hid a deep loneliness. She’d lost her family in a car crash years ago, and all she had left was Johnny. Over time, I stopped seeing her as the old woman who punished me for breaking her window and started visiting her regularly, learning about her life and playing chess. She became a grandmother figure to me.
On her 89th birthday, she asked me to promise to take care of Johnny when she was gone. I jokingly told her she’d outlive us all, but a few days later, I found her peacefully passed away in her sleep. I kept my promise to Madeleine, taking care of Johnny and visiting her grave regularly.
Three years have passed. I still visit her on her birthday, bringing lilies and cake—just like the night I first saw her smile. “Happy birthday, Maddy,” I whisper, smiling through the tears.
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