StoriesBlog David smiled. Small. Sad. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“It’s true. You’re the reason I went to college. You told me I was smart enough. That I could do anything.”
“You were smart, Robbie. I just reminded you.”
Mom was staring. Charlie was staring. I was staring. Our homeless stranger was Dad’s elementary school teacher.
“What?” Dad’s voice cracked. “What happened?”
David’s smile faded. “Life happened.”
We finished eating in silence. But it was different now. Not uncomfortable. Just… heavy.
After dinner, Dad made coffee. We moved to the living room. David sat in Dad’s recliner. Charlie sat on the floor next to him, fascinated. I sat on the couch with Mom. She was quiet. Thinking.
“Mr. Anderson,” Dad said, then corrected himself. “David. I have to ask. What happened? How did you—”
He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to. David sighed.
“My wife, Susan. She got sick. Early onset Alzheimer’s. She was only fifty-five.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“She deteriorated quickly. Within three years she didn’t recognize me. I put her in a facility. The best one I could find. But it was expensive. Very expensive.” He paused. Stared at his coffee. “I spent everything. Savings. Retirement. Sold the house. Borrowed against my pension. But it still wasn’t enough. I worked extra jobs. Tutoring. Summer school. Anything.”
“That must have been exhausting,” Mom said quietly.
“It was. But she was my wife. I’d do anything for her.”
“What happened to her?” Charlie asked.
“Charlie!” Dad started.
“It’s okay,” David said. “She passed away two years ago. Peacefully. In her sleep.”
“I’m glad she didn’t suffer,” Mom said.
“Me too. But after she died? I had nothing. No house. No savings. I was sixty years old. Exhausted. Depressed. I lost my teaching job because I missed too many days. I couldn’t find another one.”
“Why not?” I asked. It came out harsher than I meant.
David looked at me. Not angry. Just tired. “Because schools don’t hire sixty-year-old teachers with gaps in their resume. They hire young teachers. Cheap ones.”
“Oh.”
“I lived in my car for six months. Then I couldn’t afford the car anymore. So I sold it. Been on the streets for two years now.”
“Two years?” Dad’s voice was barely a whisper. “Two years. Why didn’t you reach out? To former students? To anyone?”
“Pride, I suppose. I didn’t want people to see me like this. Didn’t want to be a burden.”
“You wouldn’t have been a burden. Robbie,” David smiled sadly. “You have a family. A life. You don’t need your fifth-grade teacher showing up asking for help.”
“Yes, I do. If that teacher is the reason I have this life.” Dad’s eyes filled with tears. So did mine.
We convinced David to stay the night. He protested. Said he’d be fine. Said he didn’t want to impose.
Dad insisted. “You’re not imposing. You’re staying. We have a guest room. It’s yours.”
“For tonight,” Mom added. Then paused. Looked at Dad. “Or longer, if you need it.”
David stared at her. “Ma’am…”
“Jennifer, call me Jen. And I mean it. Stay as long as you need.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” I said.
Everyone looked at me. I felt my face heat up. “I’m sorry. For earlier. For how I acted. I was… I was wrong.”
David shook his head. “You were protecting your family. That’s not wrong.”
“But I wasn’t. Not really. I was just… I was uncomfortable. And that’s not a good enough reason to turn someone away.”
“Lauren…” Mom started.
“No, Mom. We were wrong. Both of us. Mr. Anderson needed help. And we almost didn’t give it. Because it was inconvenient.”
Tears were streaming down my face now. “I’m seventeen years old. I have everything. A house. Food. Family. Safety. And I almost told Dad not to help you because it would make Thanksgiving dinner weird. That’s horrible. I’m horrible.”
“You’re not horrible,” David said gently. “You’re human. And you’re learning. That’s all any of us can do.”
“Stay,” I said. “Please. We have the room. We have the food. And I want… I want to do better.”
David looked at Dad. At Mom. At Charlie. At me.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll stay. Just for a little while. Until I get back on my feet.”
David stayed for three months. Not in the guest room. Dad helped him find a small apartment nearby. But he came over for dinner some days in the week. He started tutoring. Word spread. He was booked solid within a month.
Then Hamilton Elementary called. They were short a substitute teacher. Would he be interested? He said yes. By February, they offered him a permanent position. Part time. Teaching fifth grade again. He accepted.
Last week, I drove to his apartment to pick him up for Thanksgiving. Our second Thanksgiving together. This time, he wasn’t a stranger. He answered the door wearing khakis and a button-down shirt. Clean shaven. Hair trimmed.
He looked different. Healthier. Happier.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Ready.”
In the car, he said, “Thank you, Lauren, for everything.”
“We didn’t do anything. You did it yourself.”
“No. You did something important. You changed your mind. You let me in. Not just into your house. Into your life. I almost didn’t. But you did. That’s what matters.”