After sending the kids off at school, do you ever simply sit in your car and stare? As though the burden of everything, including dinner, bills, laundry, and life itself, were pressing down on your chest and urging you to take action.
One morning, I experienced one of those moments. “What’s the point of anything when you feel like you’re just… surviving?” I asked myself as I sat on the steering wheel.
I dismissed it. Because mothers do that. We push through it, shake it off, and continue on.
But for some reason, that day, I kept thinking about a man who had once told me that there is a purpose to life. that you are important even if you feel inconspicuous.
Vincent, the man who never smiled, was his name.
With my two boys, Ashton and Adam, ages 12 and 14, who are constantly mischievous and have lanky limbs, I packed up my belongings and moved into my dad’s old house after his death. We had it, even though it wasn’t much.
Adam was crying in his new room the night we moved in, holding a vintage picture of his grandfather. “I miss him, Mom,” he said to her. And occasionally… occasionally, I also miss Dad. despite my knowledge that I shouldn’t.
With a broken heart, I drew him near. “Hey, you can still miss him. You have good reason to feel this way, my love.
Adam said, “But he left us,” in a broken voice. “He chose” her “instead of us.”
“That’s his loss,” I responded firmly, despite the pain in my heart. “Because Ashton and you? The best thing that has ever happened to me is you.
Years ago, my husband left, preferring another lady to us. He paid child support on time, but he never cared about holidays, birthdays, or even the infrequent “Hey, how are my kids?”
I knew better than to rely on anyone because my mother had abandoned us when I was a child. Now, it was just the three of us against the world.
Then there was my neighbor Vincent.
His house was always quiet and was immediately next to ours. He just ever went grocery shopping and never had any visitors. He simply sat in his wheelchair on his porch, staring at the road as if he were waiting for something that would never arrive.
“Morning,” I would say to him.
“Morning,” he would reply.
And our relationship was limited to that. “Morning,” “Hi,” and “Hello” are all that is spoken.
Playing the roles of mother and housewife, with days blending together and surrounded by silence, I assumed this was just the way life would be.
My lads brought home something that I had forbade them from doing for years.
They rushed through the door, enthusiastic and noisy, while I was doing the dishes.
“Mom, look what we got!” Ashton shouted while clutching a wriggling clump of fur.
Between them, a lovely German Shepherd puppy wriggled, its tail waving and its huge ears flopping as if it already belonged. Ashton set the tiny one down on the floor and I stood there in disbelief.
“Pardon me? “Where did you get that?” I blinked as I asked, already dreading the response.
“He was free,” Adam hastily added. “This woman was revealing them. She warned that they would wind up in a shelter if no one took them.
I folded my arms. “And you thought bringing home a puppy was the solution?”
“He’s small!” Ashton quarreled. “He won’t eat much.”
I gave a snort. Yes, friend, I used to be small too. Take a look at the outcome.
“Please, Mom!” Adam pleaded. “We’ll look after him. You won’t need to take any action.
Then Ashton’s puppy-dog eyes appeared. “Please, Mom. He’s adorable, and you’re going to love him.”
Their optimistic expressions brought back memories of my early aspirations to own a dog, which were dashed when my mother departed, taking our family pet with her.
“Mom?” Ashton spoke in a little voice. “Do you recall Grandpa’s words? That a heartbeat is necessary for every home?”
I gasped. My dread of attachment and loss had always prevailed over Dad’s desire for us to have a dog.
Gazing at the puppy, I let out a sigh. He was small, with ears too large for his head and a tail that waggled as if he already loved us more than anything else. There were more people than me.
“What’s his name?” I inquired.
“Asher!” “Ashton said.”
“No way,” Adam shot back. “He looks like a Simba.”
“Mom, say which one’s better.”
I gave my temples a rub. “I don’t know, guys, he looks like a —”
The puppy gave a little bark.
“Simba it is!” I made up my mind.
Ashton let out a grunt. Adam gave a fist pump. And Simba was ours in an instant.
I first heard Vincent’s voice outside of our customary greetings two weeks later as we were strolling Simba along the street.
“Miss, may I have a word?”
Startled, I turned. He was observing us from his fence. Better yet, observing Simba.
Despite my hesitation, I approached and waved my hand. “Yes?”
“I used to train German Shepherds,” he stated. “Back when I was in the service.”
He used to say “used to” in a way that made my chest hurt dullly.
He went on, “Would you mind if I pet him?”
Vincent wheeled himself forward after I nodded. He extended a rough, weathered hand. Something shifted the instant his fingers touched Simba’s fur.
He grinned.
It was the first time I had ever seen him smile.
He said, “May I give him a treat?”
“Sure.”
He swiveled his chair in the direction of his residence, but I heard a huge CRASH before he could even enter. I dashed inside. With a broken bowl of cookies at his feet, he was slouched in his chair.
He murmured, “I’m fine,” but his hands were trembling.
“No, you’re not,” I murmured quietly as I knelt down next to him. “And that’s okay.”
His eyes, brimming with years of unsaid suffering, met mine. “Sometimes I forget,” he muttered to himself. “I reach for things like I used to, like my legs still…” His voice cracked.
I picked up a broom and ignored him. I became aware of the portraits on the walls at that point. dozens of them.
Younger, uniformed Vincent. He stood next to strong, well-behaved Shepherds who were waiting for orders, jumping over obstacles, and standing at attention.
I turned to face him again. He was staring at a picture of a younger Vincent standing in the midst of a field with five Shepherds around him, his hand up in mid-command.
“That’s Shadow,” he said, indicating the biggest canine. “During my deployment, she twice saved my life. The final instance…” He took a deep swallow. “The last time cost us her own.”
“I miss it,” he said, his voice full of honest emotion. “Dogs were everything to me. My relatives. My entire being.”
After he paused, he said, “I didn’t get married. didn’t desire children. didn’t think it necessary. They were sufficient.
“That was it,” he whispered, “after the accident.”
I looked at his legs as I gulped. I didn’t need to inquire about what transpired. He was still here, but his life was over. Then it dawned on me.
“Would you help my boys train Simba?” I replied.
He gave me a shocked expression. “What?”
“No one knows Shepherds as well as you do. Vincent, teach them—teach me.
“I-I don’t know —”
“I do,” I firmly stated. “You NEED this.”
His eyes filled with tears. “Why? Why would you want to assist an elderly man who is broken?
I remarked, “Because no one’s broken,” while considering my own wounds. “We’re all just… waiting to feel whole again.”
Vincent’s knuckles were white when his fingers curled over the wheelchair’s arms. He looked at me for a long time, his jaw clenched as if he were swallowing something large.
He said, “I don’t know if I can still do this,” with fatigue. “It’s been years.”
I moved in closer. “Then try.”
Something I had never seen before flickered in his eyes: longing, hope, and a struggle between wanting to believe and being too scared to. He finally let out a breath, briefly closing his eyes as if reconciling with an inner force.
“Alright,” he replied. “I’ll do it.”
Even though my eyes were burning, a smile forced its way through my lips.
Vincent became a part of our life after that day. He sat in our yard every afternoon and led my boys through incentives, corrections, and orders.
Adam, your voice is firm and not furious. Simba pays attention to assurance rather than anxiety.
“All right, Ashton, but don’t use the candy too much. He must comply without anticipating payment.
Adam once broke down in tears during training because Simba refused to listen. “This is impossible for me! I don’t measure up.”
With a soft yet authoritative voice, Vincent wheeled over. “Look at me, son. I adored working with Shepherds, and you know why? They require tolerance, patience, and most of all, someone who believes in them, because they are human. In the same way that I trust you.
Simba gradually changed from an energetic puppy to a smart, well-behaved canine. What about my boys? They also became more responsible and patient.
Vincent, too? His once lonely existence was suddenly full with laughter, purpose, and something he had believed he had lost forever. He was alive once more.
He rolled up to my porch one morning with a book in his hand.
Saying, “I wrote this years ago,” he gave it to me. “A guide to training Shepherds.”
I read his meticulous, handwritten notes as I turned the faded pages.
“You gave me back something I thought was lost, Sandra,” he confessed, staring at Simba.
My throat ached. Whispering, “We should’ve met sooner,”
“Maybe we met at the right time,” he remarked once.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. Vincent was no longer merely a neighbor. He belonged to the family. And perhaps, just possibly, we had saved one another.
After dropping the kids off at school a year later, I was sitting in my car. I wasn’t staring into space this time, though. As Vincent built up an agility course for Simba’s afternoon training, I watched him in his front yard.
Adam texted me, and my phone buzzed: “Remember that Vincent’s birthday is tomorrow, Mom. Is there anything unique we can do?
I grinned as I recalled how Vincent had stayed up late last week to help Ashton with his history assignment on military service dogs and how his voice was filled with both pride and anguish as he related stories about his time in the service.
During our weekly family supper that night, I saw Vincent chuckle at one of Adam’s jokes while his eyes wrinkled at the corners. Like his predecessors in those old photos, Simba laid at his feet, loving and protective.
Vincent remarked, “You know,” when the boys were washing the dishes. “I thought God had forgotten about me.” I thought I was done as I sat in that chair and watched life go by. He hadn’t forgotten, though. He was simply holding off on sending me what I needed until the proper time.
“What was that?” Even though I knew the answer, I still asked.
With tears in his eyes, he reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “A household. a goal. An excuse to grin once more.
I just nodded, tears of happiness welling up in my eyes. Every ending can be a fresh start, as Vincent had taught us. that the wheelchair served as his seat at our family table and was no longer his prison.
What about me? The time spent in the car that morning had changed. Now, I knew the answer to the question of what the aim of it all was—love. Family was the main focus. Finding meaning in assisting others in discovering theirs was the main goal.
Making a crippled veteran smile again was sometimes the goal.
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