I Was 34 Weeks Pregnant and One Phone Call From Losing My House When I Mowed My 82-Year-Old Neighbor’s Lawn in the Brutal Heat—At Dawn, a Sheriff Was Pounding on My Door, Asking Me to Open My Mailbox While He Watched
with your feet up, not mowing lawns for old ladies.”
I shrugged. “Resting is overrated. Besides, I could use the distraction.”
She tilted her head, studying me with sharp, pale blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
“Trouble at home?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Forced a smile.
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
She didn’t believe me. I could tell. But she didn’t push, either. Instead, very slowly, she loosened her grip on the handle, then let go entirely. She lowered herself onto her porch steps with a long, grateful sigh.
“Thank you, Ariel,” she said softly. “You’re a lifesaver.”
I set the bills down on her porch railing, yanked the pull cord, and the old mower coughed back to life.
The first few passes weren’t so bad. Then the heat started to climb inside me. The grass was thick and wet at the roots, and my sandals squelched with every
step. My belly pulled the mower’s handle toward me at an awkward angle. Sweat rolled down my spine. A wave of dizziness rose up, then faded, then rose again.
But I kept going. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Every time I turned at the end of a row, I caught Mrs. Higgins watching me from the steps. There was a strange, thoughtful look on her face. Not pity. Something deeper than that. Like she was working out a puzzle she’d been given, and she was getting close to the answer.
About halfway through, my breath caught in my throat. The world tilted a little. I stopped, leaned my whole weight against the handle, and pressed my forearm to my face.
When I lowered it, Mrs. Higgins was standing beside me with a tall glass of lemonade, ice clinking, the outside of the glass beaded with cold water.
