The night the storm hit, I had no idea my mom’s old advice—always help others when you can—was about to put my patience through the ultimate test.
It started like any other Wednesday. The news warned that a powerful storm was moving toward our city and told everyone to leave if they could. I grabbed an overnight bag, checked into a hotel, and spent the evening glued to the TV. My heart pounded as I watched water swallow streets, praying my house would be okay.
The next day, I drove home slowly, my stomach in knots. Miraculously, my place was still standing. The basement had some water, but nothing serious—a quick call to a repairman fixed it.
My neighbor, however, wasn’t so lucky.
Mr. Harrison’s place looked like a war zone. Most of his windows were smashed, his roof was torn up, and the walls were badly damaged. I saw him walking around the mess, hands on his hips, face set in a deep scowl. His house was old—probably too old to survive a storm like that.
Mr. Harrison was a man in his sixties. No wife. No kids—or so I thought. I’d never seen anyone visit him, and he barely spoke to neighbors. Always alone, always closed off.
But in that moment, watching him standing in front of the wreckage, I felt sorry for him. He had no one else, so maybe… I could help.
I walked up to his yard and gently tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped like I’d fired a gun behind him.
“Oh my God!” he barked, spinning around.
“It’s me, your neighbor, Natalie,” I said, trying to smile.
“I don’t care who you are! Why are you on my property?!” he snapped.
I stammered, “I… I just wanted to offer… if you have nowhere to stay, I’d like to invite you to stay with me for a while.”
His eyes narrowed, then softened.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ve got a spare room, and I’m at work most of the day, so you’d have the place mostly to yourself while your home gets fixed,” I explained.
“Well… thank you,” he muttered, then turned and went back inside his ruined house.
I wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no. I stood there awkwardly before heading home.
Half an hour later, my doorbell rang. I opened it to find Mr. Harrison with a suitcase in one hand.
“Well? Is everything ready?” he asked.
“Um… I didn’t really understand if you’d agreed or not…” I said.
“I think I was clear enough,” he grumbled, brushing past me into the house.
I led him to the guest room, grateful it was on the first floor so I didn’t have to haul his heavy suitcase, which—by the way—he shoved into my hands without warning.
“I’ll get you bedding and towels so you can make the bed,” I said.
“I’m not making the bed. You’re a woman,” he muttered.
I froze. “Excuse me?”
“At home I had to do it because I lived alone. Now there’s you—and I’m a guest.”
I swallowed my irritation. “Fine.”
At first, I told myself his attitude was probably from stress… but oh, was I wrong.
Living with Mr. Harrison was chaos. He stayed up late making noise, left dirty dishes everywhere, and used the phrase “You’re a woman” like it was his favorite greeting. His socks, shoes, newspapers—everywhere. And cleaning up after himself? Forget it.
One evening, I was in the kitchen cooking roast chicken and potatoes—his favorite—when disaster struck. I reached for spices on the top shelf and accidentally bumped my head on the exhaust fan. Out of nowhere, something soft and disgusting dropped onto my head.
It was one of his dirty socks.
“WHAT THE—?!” I shrieked, flinging it off.
Mr. Harrison strolled in.
“What’s your problem? I have a headache.”
“How did your sock end up on the exhaust fan?!” I yelled.
“I stepped on something wet, so I took it off. Your fault—you should’ve cleaned better,” he said casually.
That was it. My patience shattered. “MY fault?! I gave you a place to stay so you wouldn’t be on the street, not so I could be your maid!”
“You’re a woman. You’re supposed to do the housework,” he said like it was a fact written in stone.
“That’s it. Pack your things!” I stormed to the guest room, grabbing his suitcase.
“You’re just throwing me out?!” he barked.
“Yes. Because you don’t appreciate kindness!” I snapped, grabbing a bottle with a ship inside from his dresser. But before I could pack it, he lunged and snatched it back.
“Don’t touch that, witch!”
I froze. “Wow. No wonder you’re lonely. You’re impossible to live with!”
For once, he went quiet. His hands clutched the bottle like it was precious. I noticed a small tag tied to it in messy, childlike handwriting: ‘My and Dad’s masterpiece.’
“Do you have a kid?” I asked.
“None of your business!”
“Then why didn’t you go to family? Why has no one ever visited you?”
His voice cracked.
“Because I ruined everything. I had a son—Georgie. His mom left me because I worked too much, took him with her. We stayed in touch until high school. Then… he wanted to be a dancer. I told him it wasn’t manly. Told him to choose—me or dancing. Haven’t seen him in 15 years.”
I was stunned. “You stopped talking to your son for 15 years… over that?”
“I’d do things differently now, I guess,” he muttered.
“Then go see him,” I urged. “You might even have grandkids.”
“He won’t want to see me.”
“I’ll make you a deal—you can stay, but behave. One more sexist comment, and you’re gone.”
“Fine. Thank you,” he said quietly.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about Georgie. I asked around the neighborhood, got an address, and soon I was sitting outside his house. I rang the bell, and a tall, handsome man answered.
“Are you Georgie?” I asked.
“George. Yeah. What do you want?” he said flatly.
“I’m your dad’s neighbor—”
“Nope,” he interrupted, starting to close the door.
“Wait! Please.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Natalie.”
“Natalie, I changed my last name for a reason. I want nothing to do with that man. If he’s alive—leave. If he’s dead—also leave.”
I blinked. “Wow. You two are more alike than you think.”
“We are NOT.”
“Trust me. I’ve lived with him for a month. Can we just talk? Not about forgiving him—just talk.”
He hesitated, then stepped outside. “Fine. Five minutes.”
We walked to the park, and I told him everything—about his dad’s behavior, his regrets, and the bottle with the ship. Somewhere along the way, we drifted into talking about his life as a professional dancer and mine. He made me laugh. A lot.
When we got back to his house, he looked at me seriously.
“Okay. I’ll meet him—on one condition.”
“What?” I asked.
“You go on a date with me.”
I smiled. “Deal.”
Back home, I handed Mr. Harrison a ship-in-a-bottle kit. “Pack your bags,” I said.
“I’m not going.”
“You are. Or you’ll regret it forever.”
An hour later, I sat in my car as he stood at George’s door, holding the bottle. I watched as George let him in. Two hours later, they were building the ship together, drinks in hand.
My mom’s words echoed in my mind: Always help those you can. And for once, it felt like the storm had blown something good into our lives.