Essay on My Experience At The Dining Room Table
“Why are you doing all of this?” I asked.
“Because I thought you could use some help,” he shrugged.
“But you didn’t have to stay. You didn’t have to feed my daughter or read to her or make tea for me. You don’t have to do any of that and yet you’re still here. Why? Don’t you have someplace else you need to be?”
“No, not really,” he answered, shrugging with a grin. “I live alone. I work strange hours. I’m able to help, so I am. I know you’re not used to it, and if you really want me to leave, I will.”
The kettle whistled so he stood to remove it from the stove. He brewed us each a cup of tea, putting a teaspoon of sugar into each one, just the way I liked it. He sat back down, placing a steaming mug in front of me.
“I’m not used to it, but I don’t want you to leave,” I answered before we both took a sip of the hot tea.
“I bet you have a lot of questions,” he opened.
“The woman and child in the picture on your desk,” I started, not really asking a question.
“That’s Shannon and Luke, my partner’s wife and son. He died two years ago in the line of duty.”
“And you helped them like you’re helping me now,” I continued, again not asking a question.
“Yes. I was there. I took care of them for about a year after, going over to their house, spending the night, making sure they were…