“Please, sir,” the older one said when I opened the door. “We can clear your driveway, the walkway, the steps… everything.”
It was just before seven on a bitter Saturday morning, the kind of cold that burned your lungs with every breath.
I stood there in my flannel and thermal shirt, staring at them. They looked like the storm had dropped them right onto my porch.
The older boy—maybe fifteen—stood protectively in front. The younger one couldn’t have been more than twelve. Between them, they had two shovels: one cheap plastic thing bent at the edge, the other patched together with tape and what looked like a shoelace.
I should’ve turned them away.
My driveway was long, and the plow had left a frozen wall at the curb that was closer to ice than snow.
“How much?” I asked.
The older boy hesitated. “Twenty dollars.”
“For each of you?”
He shook his head. “No, sir. Total.”
For a moment, I almost agreed.
I’m not proud of that.
At seventy-one, with aching knees and a back that complains every morning, I’ve gotten used to choosing whatever makes the day easier. Since my wife passed, I’ve lived alone, and sometimes comfort wins over everything else.