I crossed the street slowly, my swollen ankles protesting every step.
“Mrs. Higgins,” I called gently. “Let me help.”
She looked up, startled. Sweat dampened the white curls at her temples, and her face was flushed from the heat.
“Oh, sweetheart, you shouldn’t,” she said. “Not in your condition.”
But I had already reached for the mower.
I took the heavy handle from her frail grip and pushed it forward. The machine coughed, rattled, and fought me with every inch. The sun beat down on my back. My shirt clung to my skin. My muscles screamed, and more than once, I had to stop and breathe through the pressure in my spine.
Still, I kept going.
For three hours, I cleared the tall grass that had turned her yard into a prison.
When I finally finished, Mrs. Higgins took my hand in both of hers. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
“You’re a good girl,” she whispered.
Her eyes searched mine with a strange, lingering sadness.
“Remember that.”