The Boy Across the Street
There’s a boy who lives across the street from my parents.
He’s fifteen — lanky, shy, and soft-spoken — the kind of kid who still waves every time he sees you pull into the driveway. At first, he was just the neighbor’s son. But over time, he became something much more than that.
It started with small gestures.
One afternoon, he noticed my dad struggling to lift a heavy bag of soil for the garden. Without hesitation, he crossed the street and knocked on the door, quietly offering to help. A week later, the sound of a lawn mower broke the afternoon silence — he was trimming the grass in my parents’ yard, unasked, just because he’d noticed it had grown long.
Then came the groceries.
The trash bins.
The mail on rainy days.
He never asked for anything in return — no allowance, no reward, not even recognition. Just a smile, a thank-you, and a wave.
My parents say he has an old soul. He listens when people talk, notices when someone’s in pain, and pays attention to the small things most people overlook — like when my mom’s knee was acting up, or when my dad spent too long sitting by the window, lost in thought.
Sometimes, he brings small gifts — a bag of oranges because “they looked sweet,” or a note in the mailbox that simply says, “Thank you for always smiling at me.” Other times, he just sits with them on the porch, talking about school, the weather, or the dog he hopes to adopt someday.
To my parents, he’s no longer just the boy across the street. He’s their quiet blessing — a guardian angel who shows up not with wings, but with work gloves, compassion, and time.