After losing my husband and daughter, I trusted no one, until the gentle old man slowly found his way into my son’s broken world. I should’ve known that something so comforting couldn’t possibly be what it seemed.

Three years ago, I buried my husband and my daughter.

The crash that took them was so violent that the hospital wouldn’t let me see their bodies. I never got to say goodbye.

Since then, it’s just been me and my now seven-year-old son, Sam.

He hasn’t really spoken since the funeral, and I understand because I haven’t been the same either.

For instance, I check the locks of our house three times a night.

I just can’t bear the thought of losing him, too.

Grief changed the way I move through the world.

I used to believe people were mostly good.

After that night, I knew they could be careless.

Every morning at 6 a.m., I stand at the kitchen window with my coffee and watch Sam eat his cereal in silence.

His dad’s photo used to hang in the kitchen. I’d moved it to my bedroom because I couldn’t handle seeing it whenever I passed by.

Then things changed.

Six months ago, a quiet elderly man started working on our block.

One day, Fred was the full-time caretaker. Next, he retired.

That’s when the new man started sweeping our block.

The Homeowners’ Association informed us of the change, and on Monday, the new guy showed up in a faded orange vest and began pushing a wide broom along the curb.

His name was Mr.

Ben.

He had a thick white beard, a worn cap, and a horribly bent posture.

The poor man moved so slowly, as if every step hurt.

He hummed old country songs, the kind my husband used to play on Saturday mornings while making pancakes.

Mr. Ben might’ve been slow, but I didn’t mind his quiet energy and humming.

Honestly, it made me think a lot about my late husband.

The first time Sam noticed him, he stared through the window.

“He looks like Santa,” he quickly wrote on his tablet, the only way he’d communicate.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of Santa sweeping our streets.

That afternoon, I walked outside while Mr.

Ben swept leaves into a neat pile.

“Good morning,” I said, politely.

He looked up, pale blue eyes soft. “Morning, ma’am.”

His voice was raspy and fragile, like it could crack if he talked too long.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said, smiling.

He chuckled.

The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.