Then nothing.
Holidays were frozen dinners and reruns. Most days it was just the hallway clock ticking and the house creaking like it was trying to speak to me.
That kind of loneliness makes you feel invisible.
Then Hubert moved in next door.
He was 12. Lanky, too tall for his age, backward cap, skateboard always in hand.
I’d see him in the evenings, rolling up and down the sidewalk. Practicing tricks. Falling. Getting back up.
Other kids got called inside.
“Dinner!” or “Homework!”
No one ever called for Hubert.
His house stayed dark most nights. No car in the driveway. No lights in the windows.
At first I told myself I wasn’t being nosy—just observant. That excuse held until the night I heard him cry.
It was late. I woke to a soft sound. Not the TV. Not the pipes. Not a baby.
Muffled, broken sobs.
I held my breath and listened.
There it was again.
I got up, pulled on my robe and slippers, and shuffled to the front window. I parted the curtain just enough.
Hubert sat on his porch.
His shoulders shook.
He wore a thin T-shirt despite the cold. Knees pulled to his chest. Arms wrapped tight around them. His cap lay on the step beside him.
No porch light. No glow from inside.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened my door and stepped outside.
“Hubert?” I called softly. “Honey, are you okay?”
He jerked his head up.
His face was streaked with tears. He looked terrified, like I’d caught him doing something wrong instead of crying his heart out.
“I’m fine,” he blurted. His voice cracked. “I’m fine.”
“Are you cold? Is your mom home?” I took one small step closer.
He stared at me for a second, then grabbed his cap, ran inside, and slammed the door.
The sound echoed down the street.
I stood there, old and useless in my robe, then shuffled back inside.
I didn’t sleep much after that.
The next day I watched his house like it was my job.
By seven my stomach felt like a clenched fist.
Usually after school he’d come out with his skateboard.
That day, nothing.
Four o’clock. Five. Six.
Porch dark. Curtains still.
By seven I couldn’t stand it.
I baked an apple pie to keep my hands busy. The one thing I can still make without a recipe.
When it cooled, I carried it next door and knocked.
“Hubert?” I called. “It’s Mrs. Faith. I brought pie.”
Silence.
I knocked again.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to open. Just say something so I know you’re okay.”
Nothing.
No footsteps. No TV. No “go away.”
Just a closed door.
I went home, set the pie on my table, and stared at it.
By morning I’d made up my mind.
I called a taxi and went to the police station—I don’t drive anymore, and at ninety-one I shouldn’t.
The officer at the front desk looked young enough to be my grandson.
“Ma’am, can I help you?” he asked, standing up.
“I hope so,” I said. “I’m worried about a boy on my street. I might be wrong. I’d like to be wrong. But if I’m right and say nothing…”
He nodded and took out a clipboard.
“What’s your name?”
“Faith. I live on Maple.”
“And the boy?”
“Hubert. He’s 12. Lives next door. I don’t see any adults there much.”
I told him about the crying on the porch. The dark house. The unanswered door.
He didn’t laugh or dismiss me.
“You did the right thing coming in,” he said. His badge read LEWIS. “Let me get Officer Murray. He handles welfare checks.”
A few minutes later, another officer appeared. Older. Calm. The kind who makes you feel things might turn out alright.
