Some people live, and some just wait. My neighbor, Vincent, was the latter. He sat in his wheelchair every day, staring at the road like he was waiting for something that never came. He rarely spoke… until our worlds collided.
Have you ever sat in your car after dropping the kids off, just… staring? Feeling the weight of everything — bills, life — crushing your chest? One morning, I had that moment, wondering, “What’s the point?”
I shook it off, like moms do. But that day, my mind drifted to Vincent, the man who never smiled but reminded me that even when you feel invisible, you matter.
After my dad died, I moved into his old house with my two boys, Ashton and Adam. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. The night we moved in, Adam was crying, holding a photo of his grandfather, missing both him and his dad. “That’s his loss,” I told him.
My husband had checked out years ago, leaving us with only each other. Then there was Vincent, always quiet, never leaving his porch except for shopping. Our interactions were just a “Morning,” and nothing more.
But then my boys brought home a puppy, Simba. “He was free,” Adam said. I sighed, outnumbered by their pleading.
Weeks later, while walking Simba, Vincent spoke to me for the first time. “I used to train German Shepherds,” he said. He smiled when he petted Simba.
Then, he collapsed, shaking. I rushed to him, and he whispered about his past: his service, his dogs, his life before the accident that changed everything. His Shepherd, Shadow, had saved his life but died in the process. “Dogs were my family,” he said, voice filled with raw pain.
And that’s when it hit me.