01/03/2026
My name is Evelyn. I’m 74 and a widow for nearly a decade. Richard’s sudden heart attack left me alone in the old house we once promised would be our last stop.
No children. No close kin. Just me and these creaking rooms filled with memories.
And the roof — that was the worst. Every storm I’d lie awake, listening to water drip like a countdown, terrified the ceiling would give way.
I pinched pennies for years and, finally this spring, hired a crew to repair it.
Four men arrived. Josh was loud and brash, always barking out commands.
The first day I made them sandwiches. When I handed one to Joseph, his face changed — like I’d handed him a prize.
Josh barked, “We’re not kids, ma’am.” I should’ve paid more attention to that warning.
On day three, I was in the kitchen rolling dough when I heard Josh shout:
“Oh my God, look at this!”
I ran out, flour still on my apron. The men froze. Kevin quickly shoved something beneath a tarp.
“What did you find?” I asked, voice small.
“Nothing, ma’am. Just a rotten beam,” they said.
Josh looked at me with a smirk. “You’ll have to pay up—big hole up there.”
That night, with the window cracked, I listened through the dark.
Josh: “We split it four ways. Easy cash. She won’t notice.”
Kevin: “Bump the invoice. Say the frame’s ruined.”
Matt: “She can barely afford us now anyway.”
Josh, chuckling: “Perfect. She’ll scrape it together. Old timers like her? They don’t make it long enough to spend what we take.”
I sat shaking at the kitchen table, tears hot and furious. Richard was gone. I had no one else to stand up for me.
They didn’t know that in less than 24 hours, every one of their plans would unravel — and the payoff they thought they’d pocket would turn into their worst mistake. ⬇️ (full story in c0mm)