The Point of No Return
By March, I couldn’t cook. Standing made me dizzy. The smell of food made me nauseous. I survived on crackers and ginger ale, wasting away.
I stopped showering, terrified I’d fall. The house began to smell. I began to smell. I no longer cared.
One Tuesday morning in April, I woke up and couldn’t get out of bed. My body had surrendered. I stared at the ceiling, realizing this was how I’d die—alone, hungry, unseen.
Then came the sound of motorcycles next door—of course, even now. But then I heard something else—my front door creaking open. Heavy footsteps.
“Mrs. Hoffman?” a deep voice called out, filled with concern. “Mrs. Hoffman, where are you?”
Two men appeared in my doorway—the same two who’d helped me after my fall. The younger one with kind eyes, and the older one with the gray beard.
“Jesus Christ,” the younger one muttered, taking in the state of me and my room.
“How did you get in?” I rasped.
“Your mail’s been piling up,” the older man said. “Your papers are still on the driveway. We could smell—” He stopped himself. “We were worried. The door was unlocked.”
“Get out,” I whispered weakly. “I don’t want you here.”
The younger one stepped closer. “Ma’am, with all due respect—you’re dying. And you’re alone. And we’re not leaving.”
“Why?” I sobbed. “Why would you help me? I’ve done nothing but hate you for thirty years.”
