“Willa…”
“I don’t need them.”
He knew she had been saving for a book.
He pushed the purse gently toward her.
“Keep them.”
“But the house—”
“We’ll find a way.”
She looked at him.
“Together?”
He nodded.
“Together.”
Willa sat beside him and rested her head against his shoulder.
Andre wrapped an arm around her.
For a long time, they remained that way.
He wished he could make every worry disappear before it reached her.
But he was beginning to understand that love did not always mean protecting someone from every difficult truth.
Sometimes it meant being willing to face that truth beside them.
The next morning, Andre went to work earlier than usual.
He carried his worries quietly, refusing to let them affect the work Evelyn had helped him find.
Mr.
Whitaker gave him several invoices to review, and Andre spent the morning carefully checking the figures.
Around noon, a familiar voice sounded from the doorway.
“Good afternoon.”
Andre looked up.
Evelyn stood beside the desk.
He rose immediately.
“Mrs.
Harrow.”
She smiled.
“Please, Andre.
Sit down.”
Mr.
Whitaker greeted her respectfully and stepped aside.
Evelyn looked over the books.
“How is our new apprentice doing?”
“Very well,” Mr.
Whitaker replied.
“He’s attentive and hardworking.”
Andre felt embarrassed.
Evelyn seemed pleased.
“Excellent.”
She turned toward him.
“Could you spare a few minutes after your work today?
I should like to see how your sister’s garden is coming along.”
Andre smiled.
“It’s mostly bare ground right now.”
“Then I shall have to use my imagination.”
He agreed.
Later that afternoon, Evelyn visited the little house beside the cottonwood grove.
The motorcar stopped near the fence.
She asked the driver to remain by the road and walked the final distance herself.
Andre opened the gate.
“Welcome.”
Evelyn looked at the weathered porch and small windows.
“It’s a lovely place.”
He smiled awkwardly.
“It needs some work.”
“Most homes do.”
Willa appeared in the doorway.
“Mrs.
Harrow!”
Evelyn greeted her warmly.
Willa immediately offered to show her the garden.
There was little to see except frozen earth and a few dry stems, but the girl spoke proudly about the flowers she planned to grow.
“Mama liked yellow ones best.”
Evelyn bent beside the garden bed.
“Then I hope you plant plenty.”
They went inside.
Andre had cleaned carefully before her arrival, though the worn furniture and patched curtains could not hide the family’s modest circumstances.
Evelyn seemed entirely comfortable.
She admired the handmade wooden table and asked about the photograph above the stove.
Willa brought it to her.
“That’s Mama.”
Evelyn held the frame.
A smiling woman looked back at her, one hand resting on the old bicycle.
“She was beautiful.”
Andre nodded.
“She was.”
Evelyn studied the photograph.
“I wish I could have met her.”
Willa smiled.
“She would’ve liked you.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.
You helped Andre.”
Evelyn looked toward him.
“I think he helped me first.”
They shared a quiet smile.
Andre prepared tea while Willa returned to her books.
For a while, the afternoon felt ordinary and pleasant.
Then a gust of wind entered through a gap near the kitchen window, lifting the corner of a curtain.
Evelyn looked toward it.
“Does that happen often?”
Andre sighed.
“When the wind comes from the west.”
“The frame needs repairing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She glanced toward the ceiling, where a faint stain marked an old leak.
“Has the roof been troublesome too?”
“A little.”
Andre tried to sound casual.
“I’ll fix it when I can.”
Evelyn looked at him carefully.
“Andre, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Is there something worrying you about this house?”
He hesitated.
His first instinct was to say no.
He did not want her to believe he had helped her because he hoped she would solve his problems.
He had already received an opportunity he could hardly believe.
Asking for more felt impossible.
But Evelyn did not press him.
She simply waited.
At last, Andre answered.
“There’s a payment due at the county office.”
“Property taxes?”
“Yes.”
“Are you behind?”
He nodded.
“After Mama got sick, we used most of what we had.
I’ve been trying to catch up.”
Evelyn listened.
“How much do you owe?”
Andre told her.
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she asked:
“Would you allow me to help you with it?”
Andre shook his head immediately.
“No, ma’am.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve already done too much.”
“Andre—”
“I mean it.”
His voice was not angry, but there was a strain in it.
He looked down.
“I don’t want you thinking I helped you yesterday because I wanted something.”
Evelyn’s expression softened.
“I have never thought that.”
“People might.”
“People may think many things.”
He glanced toward Willa, who was reading in the next room.
“I don’t want her growing up believing we have to ask other people to take care of us.”
Evelyn folded her hands.
“Is that what your mother taught you?”
Andre hesitated.
“No.”
“What did she teach you?”
He remembered the little paper inside the sewing tin.
He remembered her sharing bread, accepting firewood from neighbors, and thanking the church women when they brought blankets during her illness.
He looked away.
“She taught us to help when we could.”
“And did she refuse help when your family needed it?”
Andre thought carefully.
“Not always.”
Evelyn nodded.
“Then perhaps she understood something important.
Giving and receiving kindness are both parts of being human.”
Andre remained silent.
Evelyn continued.
“You don’t owe me your pride, Andre.
And you don’t have to accept anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
She looked toward the old photograph.
“But please don’t mistake accepting help for failing your mother.”
Those words struck him more deeply than she realized.
For months, Andre had carried a quiet fear that he was not doing enough.
Every unpaid bill, every empty cupboard, every loose board in the house seemed to remind him of things he had failed to manage.
He had never thought of the help his mother accepted as weakness.
Yet he judged himself harshly for needing the same kindness.
He took a slow breath.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to decide now.”