I’ve got more money than I know what to do with—big house, fancy cars, the works—but it never filled the emptiness I carried around. At sixty-one, I’d spent years alone, wondering if life could’ve turned out differently if I’d found someone who didn’t just see dollar signs when they looked at me. One day, driving down the street, I spotted a woman rummaging through a dumpster. She looked worn out but tough, like she wasn’t about to let the world break her. Something about her made me stop the car. I rolled down the window and asked if she needed help. Her name was Lexi, and she didn’t trust me at first—who could blame her? But when she admitted she had nowhere to go, I offered her my garage. It’s more like a little apartment, really, and I told her she could stay until she figured things out. She agreed, but only for a night.
Lexi settled in, and we started sharing meals now and then. She had this spark—gritty and real—that I couldn’t ignore. Over dinner one evening, she told me she used to paint, dreaming of art galleries until her husband left her for someone else and took everything she had. I felt for her; that kind of hurt doesn’t just fade away. We kept talking over the days, and I started to enjoy her company more than I expected. She had a quick sense of humor that made my huge, quiet house feel less lonely. But then, one afternoon, I walked into the garage without knocking, looking for an air pump. What I found instead were paintings—dark, twisted ones of me with chains, blood, even a coffin. My stomach dropped. Was this how she saw me after I’d tried to help her? I left before she saw me, but I couldn’t unsee it.
That night at dinner, I confronted her. She went pale, fumbling to explain that the paintings weren’t really about me—they were her way of dealing with her anger at life’s unfairness. She’d lost so much, and I had so much, and it got tangled up in her head. I wanted to believe her, but the trust was gone. I told her she had to leave. The next morning, I drove her to a shelter with some cash to help her start over. She took it quietly, and we didn’t say much.
Weeks later, I still felt the sting of losing whatever we’d started to build. Then a package showed up—a painting of me, peaceful and calm, nothing like the others. A note with Lexi’s number was inside. My heart raced as I dialed her. She answered, and we talked. She’d used the money to get back on her feet—new clothes, a job, plans for an apartment. I apologized for kicking her out so fast, and she forgave me. Before I knew it, I asked her to dinner. She said yes, and now I can’t wait to see where this second chance takes us.
