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.
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