“We didn’t help you for payment,” Frede said quietly.
Bernard’s eyes filled. “You’re good boys.”
They left that evening unable to shake the picture of the old man alone in that broken-down place.
The very next day they came back, arms full of grocery bags they’d bought with every dollar earned from mowing lawns and washing cars.
Bernard opened the door and his mouth trembled when he saw the food.
“Boys… what is this?”
“Just thought you could use it,” Keaton said, setting bags on the wobbly table.
Bernard cried without making a sound.
From then on they showed up twice a week. What started as charity turned into something real. Bernard stopped being someone they helped and became someone they loved.
On warm afternoons they sat outside on mismatched chairs while Bernard told stories—not about where he came from, but about life. Simple, sharp truths that stuck.
“A good man does right when people are looking,” he said once, hands folded over his cane. “A great man does it when no one is. You two—you’re going to be great.”
“We want to teach,” Frede told him.
Bernard smiled like that was the best news he’d heard in years.
Another day, while the boys hammered fresh tarp onto the roof, he called up, “Money doesn’t make you rich, boys. People do. Love’s the only thing that counts in the end.”
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