I never knew who kept sending me pizza every Saturday, but it soon became the only bright spot in my lonely weeks. I waited for the doorbell each time, until one night I opened the box and saw the words: “I know what you did 50 years ago.” I realized the past I had buried was no longer safe. We are all afraid of loneliness.
I knew that feeling too well. I had no husband, no children, and even if I had wanted them, it would have been impossible. A long time ago, illness had left me infertile, and over the years, that fact settled inside me like a stone I could never put down.
The only creature sharing my home was my cat, Oliver, and he barely tolerated me. Once a year, if I was lucky, he would let me scratch his ears. I still worked even though I could have retired by now.
It wasn’t that I loved my job so much. I knew that no one else would pay my bills or fix the roof if it leaked. Relying on myself was the only option I had ever had.
As bleak as it sounds, the highlight of my week was pizza delivery. Every Saturday at exactly six in the evening, a box of hot pizza would arrive at my door. I never placed the order myself, and I had no idea who paid for it.
At first, the mystery unsettled me. Why would anyone buy food for a stranger?
But as the weeks turned into months, I began to think differently.
Maybe there were still kind people in this world, people who wanted to brighten someone else’s life. I let myself believe that, and I started looking forward to six o’clock more than anything else in the week. The delivery guy, Ryan, was part of the ritual.
He was young, always cheerful, with an easy smile that didn’t seem forced. He had a habit of tossing out a quick joke or a silly comment before handing me the box. For a few minutes each Saturday, I didn’t feel invisible.
…The story doesn’t end here, it continues on the next page 👇
