But the truth is uglier.
I saw Evelyn as shelter.
A warm house.
A stocked refrigerator.
A quiet neighborhood.
A bank account.
A way out.
At that point in my life, I had already burned through every excuse a man could use. My mother had died when I was sixteen. My father drank himself into prison. I dropped out of community college after one semester, lost one job after another, borrowed money from friends until they stopped answering my calls, and finally ended up sleeping in my old blue pickup behind a grocery store in late November, wearing two hoodies and still waking up with numb fingers.
Debt collectors called every day.
My truck needed repairs.
My stomach hurt from cheap gas station food.
I smelled like rain, old coffee, and failure.
Then I met Evelyn.
She came into the grocery store every Tuesday and Friday morning. I knew because I worked there for three months stocking shelves before I got fired for being late too many times. She always bought the same things. Oat bread. Fresh peaches when they were in season. A small bouquet of flowers. Chicken thighs. Earl Grey tea. Sometimes a slice of lemon cake from the bakery case.
