I helped my elderly neighbor through the last years of her life and made sure she never felt alone. So when the police showed up at my door the morning after her funeral, I never imagined I would be the one treated like a criminal.
My name is Claire. I'm 30, and I live alone in a small house with a narrow porch and a mailbox that leans a little to the left.
Three years ago, I noticed my elderly neighbor's mail piling up in her mailbox. It sat there for days.
Unopened bills. Catalogs. Letters.
I noticed my elderly neighbor's mail piling up in her mailbox.
I walked past it every morning on my way to work, and every evening it bothered me a little more. Finally, one evening, I knocked on her door.
An elderly woman answered slowly, wrapped in a cardigan despite the warm weather. She looked embarrassed more than frail.
"I'm sorry to bother you. I'm Claire. I live next door. I noticed your mail..."
"Oh." She looked down. "It's just been overwhelming lately."
