I hurried downstairs. The basement smelled like damp cardboard and old paint. After a few hard turns, the main valve finally moved. The rushing sound stopped.
When I came back up, Linda was standing in the middle of her kitchen holding a bucket that hadn’t done much. Her shoulders dropped when I told her the water was off.
“We can clean this up,” I said, grabbing a mop.
We worked side by side for about twenty minutes. Then I noticed she had gone quiet. Tears were sliding down her cheeks. Not dramatic crying. Just quiet tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve handled everything alone for so long. I forgot how scary it feels when something goes wrong.”
I looked at her differently in that moment. This wasn’t just about a broken pipe.
“You don’t have to apologize for needing help,” I said. “That’s what neighbors are for.”
After we dried the floor, she insisted on making tea even though it was past midnight. We sat in her living room. Her gray cat, Milo, was curled up on a chair. Family photos lined the mantel.
“I didn’t know who else to call,” she said softly. “Most of the people I used to rely on are gone.”