Once, in my solitude and wealth, I offered shelter to a homeless woman named Evelyn, and was struck by her quiet resilience.
I allowed her to stay in my garage, but one evening, I entered unannouncedand stood frozen at what I saw.
I had everything money could buya grand estate in the Cotswolds, luxury cars, more wealth than I could ever need. Yet inside, there was an emptiness nothing could fill. In all my sixty years, I had never known family. Women were only ever interested in my inheritance, and now I regret never having tried for something real.
One dreary afternoon in London, as I drove through the rain to quiet my loneliness, I spotted a woman digging through a rubbish bin. Her tangled hair and thin frame caught my attention, but it was the fierce determination in her movements that held it. She seemed fragile, yet there was something wild in her nature that intrigued me.
Against my usual reserve, I stopped the car. Rolling down the window, I studied her. When she glanced up, wary, I asked, “Do you need help?”
Her eyes were sharp, distrustful, and for a moment I thought she might bolt. Instead, she wiped her hands on her worn trousers and said, “Can you?”
“I believe so,” I replied, stepping out, though I didnt quite know why I was offering. “Would you like somewhere to stay tonight?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No.”
I exhaled. “I have a converted garagea place to rest. You’re welcome to stay awhile, no conditions.”
After a long pause, she nodded. “One night. Im Evelyn.”
The drive to my estate was silent. She sat with her arms crossed, staring out the window. When we arrived, I showed her the small, tidy space. “Theres food in the fridge. Make yourself at home.”
“Thank you,” she murmured before shutting the door.
Days passed, and Evelyn stayed. Sometimes we shared meals. There was something intriguing in hera buried tenderness beneath her hardened exterior. Perhaps the loneliness in her mirrored mine, or perhaps her presence simply eased my isolation.
One evening, she spoke of her past. “I was an artist once,” she said quietly. “Had a little gallery, a few exhibitions then my husband left me for a younger woman. Took everything.”
“Im sorry,” I said, and meant it.
She shrugged. “Its over now.” But the pain lingered in her eyes.
The more time we spent together, the more I looked forward to our talks. Her sharp wit cut through the quiet of my empty manor, and bit by bit, the hollowness inside me lessened.
Then, one afternoon, everything changed. Searching for a tyre pump in the garage, I stepped insideand froze. Dozens of paintings covered the floorgrotesque, twisted portraits of me. One showed me in chains, another with bleeding eyes, and in the corner, my likeness lay in a coffin.
I was stunned. Was this how she saw me? After all Id done for her?
At dinner, my anger spilled over. “Evelyn, what in Gods name are these paintings?”
She paled. “You werent supposed to see them.”
“Well, I have. Do you really think of me as a monster?”
Her hands trembled. “No. I was just angry. You have everything, and I lost so much. Those werent about youthey were about my pain. I had to let it out.”
I wanted to understand, but the images haunted me. “I think its time you left,” I said quietly.
Her eyes widened. “Please, just wait”
“No. Its done.”
The next morning, I helped her gather her things and drove her to a shelter in town. Before she left, I pressed a few hundred pounds into her hand. She hesitated, then took it.
Weeks passed, and the guilt gnawed at me. It wasnt just the paintingsit was what wed had before, something I hadnt felt in years.
One day, a parcel appeared at my door. Inside was another paintingthis one gentle, serene, capturing a side of me I hadnt known existed. A note lay beneath it: Evelyns name and a phone number.
My hands shook as I dialled. When she answered, her voice was tentative. “Hello?”
“Evelyn, its me. The paintingits beautiful.”
A pause. “Thank you. I wasnt sure youd like it. You deserved better than the others.”
“You dont owe me anything,” I said. “Im sorry for how I reacted.”
“And Im sorry for what I painted,” she whispered. “It wasnt really about you.”
“Theres nothing to forgive. Perhaps we could start again?”
“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.
“Supper. If youd like.”
Another silence. Then, softly: “Id like that. Very much.”
We agreed to meet in a few days. She told me shed used the money I gave her for new clothes and had found work. Soon, shed have her own flat.
When we said goodbye, I realised I was smiling. Perhaps this was a new beginningfor both of us.
