At seventy-four, I thought I was just paying for peace — peace from the leaks that haunted my old roof. I didn’t expect the roofers to uncover something hidden up there, something that would force me to make the hardest and most important decision of my life.
My name is Evelyn. I’m 74 years old, a widow for almost ten years now. My husband Richard died suddenly — right there in the garden. One moment he was fussing about the weeds growing too fast, the next he clutched his chest and collapsed. Just like that, he was gone.
We never had children. No family left. Just me and this old house that creaks like tired bones.
I’ve kept myself busy in the years since. I tend to my roses, bake bread, volunteer at the library. The kids there always roll their eyes when I recommend Dickens, but I don’t mind. Still, no matter how I fill my days, nothing replaces the silence that follows you home. And in silence, you hear things you’d rather not.
The house talks when no one else does. Groaning beams, dripping leaks, whispers of age and neglect. Every stormy night, I would lie awake, clutching my quilt, staring at the ceiling and praying it wouldn’t collapse on me while I slept.
Finally, this spring, I saved enough for roof repairs. I hired a small crew. They weren’t the type Richard would’ve liked — tattoos, cigarettes dangling from lips, loud music blaring from their truck. Richard would’ve called them “trouble in steel-toe boots.” But I told myself, Evelyn, don’t judge. You need a roof, not saints.
The morning they arrived, my roses actually trembled from the bass of their music. Four of them climbed out of the truck.
The first was Joseph — mid-twenties, hair too long for the job maybe, but his eyes were kind. He tipped his head respectfully.
“Good morning, ma’am. We’ll get you taken care of.”
I smiled. “Thank you, dear. Call me Evelyn.”
Then there was Josh — loud, cocky, already barking orders.
“Where’s the access? We’re burnin’ daylight here.” He barely looked at me.
Kevin came next — tall, lean, cigarette stuck to his mouth. He squinted at the roof and muttered, “This one’s already a nightmare.”
The last was Matt — quiet, steady-eyed, but distant. He followed the others without saying much.
Despite their roughness, I decided to play hostess. Old habits never leave. At noon, I carried out a tray of turkey sandwiches and a jug of lemonade.
Joseph’s face lit up. “You didn’t have to do this, ma’am.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Hard work deserves a meal.”
Josh snorted. “What is this, daycare? We’re not kids, lady.” He snatched a sandwich without thanks.
Kevin smirked. “Guess you’ve got yourself a house mom, Josh.”
Josh chuckled, “Yeah, maybe she’ll tuck us in too.”
I felt my chest tighten, but I forced a smile. Richard would’ve told me not to let them rattle me.
Joseph gave me an apologetic glance. “Don’t mind them. They just… talk.”
But something about their laughter, sharp and hollow, unsettled me. I couldn’t shake the feeling they weren’t just here to fix a roof.
By the third day, the sound of hammers had almost become comforting. I was kneading dough in the kitchen when a sharp shout broke the rhythm.
“Holy Jeez!” Josh’s voice — too loud, too excited.
I hurried outside. The men froze the second they saw me. Under a tarp, I caught a glimpse of something — a wooden box. My heart nearly stopped.
That box.
Richard’s box.
I recognized it instantly. The brass corners, the wood grain. Years ago, just days before his death, Richard had shown it to me. He held my hand and whispered, “Eve, if something ever happens, it’s yours. You’ll know when to open it.”
I never touched it. Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I wasn’t ready.
Josh smirked. “Don’t worry, lady. Just some junk your old man stuffed up here.”
“Junk?” My voice cut sharper than I meant. “That box belongs to me.”
Kevin narrowed his eyes. “Funny thing though… feels heavy for junk.”
Matt spoke up for the first time. “Maybe we should hand it over.”
Josh snapped, “Shut it, Matt. We found it. Finder’s keepers.”
Joseph stepped forward. His voice was quiet but firm. “It’s hers, Josh. Don’t be a thief.”
Josh sneered. “What are you, a boy scout? She’s just some old lady with a leaky roof.”
I stood straighter. “Old lady or not, that’s my husband’s box. And you’ll regret it if you try to keep it from me.”
That night, I overheard them outside, their voices carrying through my open window.
Josh: “We split it four ways. Easy money. She’s too old to know.”
Kevin: “And we bump up her bill. Say the whole frame’s rotten.”
Matt: “She can barely afford us now.”
Josh: “Exactly. She’ll find a way. And we’ll be rich.”
Joseph: “This isn’t right. It’s hers.”
Josh: “You think she’s gonna use it? She’ll die before she spends a cent. You in or not, kid?”
My heart pounded.
The next morning, the truck rumbled away, but Joseph stayed. He came to my porch, hat twisting in his hands. His voice shook as he spoke.
“Ma’am… here. The box. It’s full of cash and gold. They wanted to take it, but… it’s yours.”
He held it out to me, trembling.
I stared at him. He could’ve stolen it all. Instead, he gave it back. Something inside me cracked.
“Joseph,” I whispered. “Richard showed me this box once. I knew it was here. I never opened it.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
We sat at my kitchen table. I traced the box with my fingers.
“Because I wanted to see what people would do if they found it,” I said. “Richard always said the world was full of thieves. I wanted to see if he was right.”
Joseph looked pained. “So this was a test?”
I reached over and held his hand. “Yes. And you passed.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t need a test. I just didn’t want to be like them.”
I squeezed his hand. “And that’s exactly why you aren’t.”
That evening, when the others returned, I was waiting. The box sat in front of me like a judge.
Josh’s eyes darted. “You can’t—”
“I know what you found,” I cut in. “And I know what you planned.”
He went pale. “She’s bluffing.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I heard everything.”
Josh stepped forward. “You think you can call the cops on us?”
“I already did,” I said calmly.
Minutes later, the yard filled with flashing lights. The police cuffed Josh, Kevin, and Matt. Josh screamed curses, Kevin tried to bargain, Matt wept.
Joseph stood tall beside me.
When it was over, I turned to him. The box sat open, gold and cash glinting under the light.
“I have no children,” I told him. “No heirs. This money, this house — it will all be yours one day. Unless… you’d rather let me call you my grandson while I’m still here.”
His face crumpled. He dropped to his knees and hugged me tightly, sobbing. “We’re family now, Grandma Evelyn.”
Six months later, he still came every week. On Thanksgiving, he brought his girlfriend. On Christmas, he baked bread — badly, but we laughed.
The money sits in a trust. The house still stands. But the silence is gone.
At seventy-four, I thought I was just buying a roof. Instead, I gained a grandson.