It was the first unvarnished truth she had spoken about herself since the funeral.
So she kept talking.
She told him the house was too large, too full of memory. The kitchen held Sunday mornings. The garden held her daughter’s tree. Every room was a trapdoor into the life she had lost.
“The world expects me to function,” she said. “I understand why. I have employees, partners, investors. But there is a gap between understanding what needs to be done and being able to do it.”
“What happens to your company when you’re not there?” Richard asked.
She gave a tired half-smile. “You ask very direct questions for a delivery man.”
“You give very honest answers for a billionaire,” he said.
For the first time since the accident, Florence laughed. It was brief, startled, almost guilty. It vanished as soon as it arrived, but something had cracked open.
When she stood to go, she picked up the envelope again and slipped it back into her pocket.
“I’m not going to offer this again,” she said.
“Because I’ll refuse again,” Richard replied.
“Yes.”
Before leaving, she asked, “What do you do when life gets heavy?”
Richard thought about it honestly.
“I ride. I work. I count what I have instead of what I don’t. And I remind myself the feeling has a bottom. It doesn’t go down forever.”
“Does that work?”
“Not always,” he said. “But it’s what I have.”
She nodded and drove away.
Then she came back.
Four days later. Then three days after that. Then twice in one week.
Always alone. Always unannounced. No cameras, no security team, no performance. She simply came and sat on the second plastic chair outside his door while he fixed punctures, sorted receipts, or ate whatever simple meal he had.
He stopped being surprised.
She said once, quietly, “This is the only place where nobody needs me to be anything.”
Richard understood that, so he never questioned it too much.
One day she arrived while he was preparing for a long delivery shift.
