But I didn’t.
“Mrs. Carter, let me help you.”
“Oh Emily, you’re pregnant—you shouldn’t—”
“Please. Sit down. I’ve got it.”
And I did.
Three hours. In the heat. Thirty-four weeks pregnant.
My back throbbed. My ankles swelled. I had to stop several times to breathe through contractions.
But I finished. Front yard. Backyard. Everything.
She brought me lemonade afterward and held my hand.
“You’re a good girl,” she said again. “Don’t forget that.”
“It was just a lawn.”
“It’s more than that,” she said quietly. “You’ll see.”
I didn’t understand.
I went home and collapsed.
That night, I barely slept—contractions, stress, fear about losing my home.
The next morning, sirens woke me.
Two patrol cars outside Mrs. Carter’s house.
Something was wrong.
Then the knock came.
“Ma’am, I need to ask about Mrs. Carter.”
“What happened? Is she okay?”
“She passed away in her sleep. Peacefully. But she left behind some instructions.”
“Instructions?”
“Yes. Including something addressed to you.”
“I don’t understand. I just helped her yesterday.”
“We know. That’s why we’re here. Can you explain your relationship?”
“She’s my neighbor. I’ve lived here three years. We talk sometimes. Yesterday I helped her with the lawn.”
“Did she offer to pay you?”
“No. I just wanted to help.”
“Did she mention her will? Any financial matters?”
“No. She just thanked me.”
The sheriff nodded. “That lines up. Now please open your mailbox.”
“My mailbox?”
