idn’t know what to do with it all.”

“You don’t just walk over to your neighbors and tell them you’re miserable,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not how I was raised. You bottle it up and deal with it.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and I felt my frustration melt away.

This wasn’t about trash bins. It was about grief. About loneliness.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his head bowed.

“I forgive you,” I replied, meaning every word.

“I don’t even know your name,” he said.

“Elise,” I said.

“And I know you’re Edwin. My husband mentioned you once or twice.”

Then, I invited him to join my Saturday book club at the library. He looked at me like I’d suggested he jump off a bridge.

“Book club?

With strangers!”

“They’re not strangers,” I said. “Not really. They’re neighbors.

Friends you haven’t met yet.”

It took some convincing, but the following Saturday, Edwin shuffled into the library, hands stuffed in his pockets. He didn’t say much that first meeting, but he listened.

By the third, he was recommending novels and trading jokes with the other members.

The real turning point came when one of the ladies, Victoria, a spry widow in her seventies, invited him to her weekly bridge game. He accepted.

From then on, he wasn’t just my cranky neighbor.

He was Edwin, the guy who brought homemade scones to book club and always had a dry one-liner up his sleeve.

The bins stayed upright. The HOA fines stopped.

And Edwin? He wasn’t alone anymore.

One evening, as I watched him laughing with Victoria and the other bridge players on her porch, Jason came up beside me.

“Guess you weren’t soft after all,” he said, grinning.

“No,” I said, smiling as I ruffled his hair.

“Sometimes, the best revenge is just a little kindness.”

And in that moment, I realized something: We weren’t just helping Edwin heal. He was helping us, too.

The first time Edwin came over for dinner, he looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He showed up holding a bottle of sparkling cider like it was a rare treasure.

His shirt was freshly ironed, but he still tugged at the collar as if it might strangle him at any moment.

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” I said warmly.

He shrugged, his lips twitching into something that resembled a smile.

“Didn’t want to come empty-handed, Elise,” he said. “It’s polite.”

The boys were setting the table, Noah carefully placing forks, Luke arranging the glasses, and Jason lighting a candle in the center. They glanced at Edwin curiously, a little wary.

Dinner was simple but comforting: roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and honey-glazed carrots, with a loaf of crusty bread and gravy on the side.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was one of James’ favorite meals. It was something that always brought warmth to the table, no matter how chaotic the day had been.

“Smells good in here,” Edwin said as he sat down, his eyes darting around like he was trying to take in every detail of the room.

“Mom’s chicken is famous in our family,” Noah piped up proudly, scooping a mountain of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “She makes it the best.”

“High praise,” Edwin said, glancing at me.

We all settled in, and for a while, the only sound was the clink of forks and knives against plates.

But soon, the boys started peppering Edwin with questions.

“Do you like chicken or steak better?” Luke asked.

“Chicken,” Edwin replied after a moment of thought. “But only if it’s cooked as well as this.”

Noah giggled.

“What’s your favorite book? Mom says you like to read a lot.”

“That’s a tough one,” Edwin said, rubbing his chin.

“Maybe To Kill a Mockingbird. Or Moby Dick.”

Jason, always the skeptic, raised an eyebrow.

“You actually finished Moby Dick?”

That made Edwin laugh, a deep, hearty sound that seemed to surprise even him.

“I won’t lie. It took me a year.”

By dessert, apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, Edwin had relaxed completely.

The boys were swapping stories about school, and he was chuckling along, even teasing Jason about his upcoming math test.

As I cleared the plates, I glanced over to see Edwin helping Noah cut his pie into bite-sized pieces, patiently showing him the best way to balance the ice cream on the fork. It was such a tender moment, and my heart squeezed a little.

When dinner was over and the boys ran off to finish homework, Edwin lingered in the kitchen, drying dishes as I washed them.

“You have a good family,” he said softly.

“Thank you,” I replied, handing him a plate to dry. “And you’re welcome here anytime.

You know that, right?”

He nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“I do now.”