“You are very handy, Daniel.”
My name is Daniel Mercer.
Back then, praise felt like warmth in a room I had no right entering.
But soon, I began performing for it.
I learned how she liked her tea.
I learned she hated eating alone.
I learned Harold used to read to her after dinner.
So one night, I picked up the book beside her chair and read aloud.
She cried silently, turning her face away.
The next day, she bought me new boots.
My old pair had split at the sole, and water soaked my socks whenever it rained. I had tried to hide it. She noticed anyway.
“You’ll ruin your feet wearing those,” she said, placing the box near the front door as if it were nothing.
I stared at the boots.
Good leather.
Warm lining.
Expensive.
A decent man would have felt grateful.
I felt clever.
Because I understood then how easily kindness could become attachment.
