“I guess he doesn’t like the name Maggie,” I whisper to the door that was just slammed in my face. Michael didn’t say another word from the time I told him the name of my daughter, to the time when he dropped me off at my house. By dropping me off, I mean he pulled into my driveway, jumped out, came around before I had a chance to move, undid my seatbelt, then picked me up, and carried me. He did all of this including managing to open my front door while still having me in his arms. A front door, which by the way, is brand new and solid wood. It has an oval, stained glass panel that depicts flowers and birds on it. It is beautiful. It also has a heavy-duty lock with a kick-ass handle and a deadbolt.

I wanted to ask where the door came from, but two things stopped me. One, I figured Michael wouldn’t answer, and two, I figured I already knew—especially since he had the keys. Keys which he dropped into my palm—also without another word, when he set me down in my living room. My legs were weak and only got weaker, when his big hand cupped one of mine, pulled it down between us and deposited the keys inside. I stared at the small silver keys that were united by a small, plain metal key ring. I was just gearing up to question him about it, when he stepped back and slammed the door in my face. Slammed. Not lightly, nope. He slammed the door so hard the walls rattled. I jumped, but not that much. I would have thought the windows would break from the force of the door slam. That’s when I looked around and noticed that every window had been replaced in the house. Every window. When I looked in Maggie’s room and saw the new window…I wanted to cry. They’re double insulated, with heavy duty locks and the outside is vinyl. I have no idea why he would do such a thing. I shudder to think how much it all cost him. Seeing it all confused me and even embarrassed me a little. Still, I was blown away.

Michael might not like me. I’m thinking that fact is pretty clear. I’ve been un-liked a lot in life, but none have made it as apparent as Michael has a knack for—even if he mostly stays silent. Yet, even if he doesn’t like me, he’s helped me. I have no idea why he has, but he has. So, one thought has settled into my heart, and this one thought seems to have pushed away the fear and even the hurt I held against my grouchy, next door neighbor.

Even if he doesn’t like me, he doesn’t want to see me or my daughter hurt.

That one thought is pretty freeing. It’s the closest I’ve come to feeling safe in my entire life. Maybe I felt safe with Maggie’s father…at least in the beginning, but that didn’t last long, and mostly was there because I was young and stupid. He sure never gave me any reason to feel safe. He definitely would have never put up a new door to keep me safe. Plus, if he found me unconscious on the floor, the only thing he might have done was step on me.

Michael may not know it, but with his actions, he’s given me a reason to like and trust him. It’s a strange feeling; one that almost feels like a miracle. Maybe Pastor Sturgill is right and my neighbor having the name of God’s favored archangel is a good thing. A sign that everything is okay.

I rub my stomach and whisper, “It’s going to be okay, Maggie.” She kicks against my stomach, and I’m taking that as her agreement.

Looking around the house, I notice the wood container by the fireplace is full. Beside the container sits a plastic bag, and I open it up to discover there are two new lighters along with five of those large fire logs. The nifty ones you buy and light the package on both ends that burn for hours and make starting a fire so simple.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where all of this came from. That feeling of freedom inside of me blooms a little more. But what really pushes me over the edge to where I think I might even like my neighbor is when I open the fridge.

Inside, there are assorted groceries. Milk, lunch meat, eggs, hamburger, chicken, and even orange juice—it’s all inside. The fridge was almost bare before I became sick. There was nothing in it but yogurt, an almost empty jar of pickles, and some butter. I don’t even see that in here now. There are brand new containers of those things, but the old ones are gone. I close the fridge with my heart hammering against my chest. Then I look around the rest of my kitchen. There’s a brand new loaf of bread, a box of cereal on the counter, and some apples, bananas, and oranges are strewn across my kitchen table.

Michael bought groceries and not only a few items, but a lot. I lean against the counter, and I feel tears slide from my eyes again. The windows left me crying and speechless, but this… this seems larger, because Michael had to do it hands on. It wasn’t a matter of buying something and having it installed. It was…shopping. It was almost like…caring. I don’t know how to process all of this. I’ll never be able to repay him, and I know in my heart that if I try, he’ll just turn mean again. Call me crazy, but that’s not something I want to experience again. So, I just stand here, leaning against my old laminate, fake, butcher block counter, and I let the tears go.

Connor Michael Jameson, my hateful, taciturn, grunting neighbor, made me cry…again.

But this time, the tears are good—definitely good. These tears wash over me, in a cleansing way. For the first time in my life, I experience true tears of…joy.