Turns out I should have worried less.
Noah became the kind of kid who noticed people.
He just paid attention.
If an older woman dropped something at the grocery store, Noah picked it up.
And when he was fourteen, he noticed Mr. Vance.
Mr. Vance lived across the street from us.
Most days, Mr. Vance sat in an old wooden chair on his porch.
His wife, Margaret, had died a few years earlier, and after that he seemed to fold into himself.
He had two grown children, Aaron and Claire, but I rarely saw them. I assumed they lived far away.
Most days, Mr. Vance sat in an old wooden chair on his porch with his hands resting over his stomach.
People waved.
Sometimes he waved back.
“Mr. Vance can’t get his mower started.”
Usually he didn’t.
One Saturday morning, Noah was looking out our front window when he said, “Mom.”
I was drinking coffee.
“What?”
“Mr. Vance can’t get his mower started.”
I glanced outside.
Noah kept watching.
Mr. Vance was standing halfway down his driveway, leaning heavily on the mower handle. He pulled the starter cord once, then stopped and pressed a hand against his lower back.
“He’ll probably figure it out,” I said.
Noah kept watching.
Then Mr. Vance tried to bend down and nearly lost his balance.
Noah put down his cereal spoon.
