…standing at the curb, hunched over, talking softly to someone I couldn’t see.
My heart slammed in my chest. I stayed in the shadows, barefoot on the cold porch, watching. A moment later, I saw her step into the glow of the streetlight.
It was our neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez. She’s in her late seventies. Widowed. Lives alone two houses down.
My husband handed her the trash bag, then took another from her porch. He wheeled both bins to the curb, checking the lids like it mattered. She touched his arm and said something that made his shoulders sag.
I didn’t go out there. I went back inside and sat at the kitchen table, shaking — not from fear anymore, but from the release of it.
When he came back in, I was waiting.
“You could’ve told me,” I said quietly.
He froze. Then he sighed and sat across from me. “She called me a few weeks ago. Said she was scared to go outside at night. Someone’s been rummaging through trash on the block. She didn’t want to bother anyone.”
“So you just… went?” I asked.
“She reminds me of my mom,” he said. “And she kept apologizing. I didn’t want you worrying. Or thinking I was sneaking around.”
I nodded, tears stinging my eyes. “I worried anyway.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
The next morning, Mrs. Alvarez left a note in our mailbox.
Thank you for raising such a kind man, it said. You make the nights less lonely.
Now, every Tuesday night, we take the trash out together. And every time I hear the door open at 3 a.m., I don’t feel afraid anymore.
I feel proud.
