After one visit, she told me, “The worst thing about getting old is that people start talking about you as though you’re already gone.”
In March, I confessed my feelings.
She laughed until she realized I was serious.
“James, I’m dying, and I’m old. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“And you’re 22.”
“I know that too.”
In April, I proposed with a gummy candy shaped like a ring.
She laughed, slipped it onto her finger, and then grew serious.
“Look, if you’re doing this for the money…”
“How can you even think that?”
“Because everyone else will.”
“I don’t want your money.”
She studied me.
“You’re not getting a cent from me.”
“That’s fine.”
“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why.”
I was reassigned from her care when I disclosed my feelings, but I kept visiting her outside my placement hours.
She died in September, and the lawyer contacted me the following month.
We never got married.
In fact, she never reciprocated my romantic feelings.
Her children accused me of manipulating her anyway.
And now, her lawyer was telling me she’d left me something.
The next morning, I sat across from a man named Daniel.
“Eleanor arranged a gift before she died,” he explained.
“What kind of gift?”
“Her book collection.”
I stared.
“Her books?”
“Nine boxes. She signed the transfer documents herself, without your involvement, and had them placed in storage under your name.”
He handed me an appraisal.
The collection was worth nearly $38,000.
I read the figure twice.
“She promised I wasn’t getting any money.”
“She didn’t leave you money from her estate. But these books have considerable value.”
Somehow, she’d kept the literal promise while giving me something worth more than I earned in a year.
“Her children will say I talked her into it.”
“They may challenge the gift. I can’t guarantee there won’t be difficulties.”
I pushed the paperwork away.
“Then I don’t want it.”
Daniel opened his drawer.
“Eleanor anticipated that.”