Page 53 of Benson
“No reply?” she asked, softer now.
He shook his head, eyes fixed on the water. “Nothing.”
Della leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
He swallowed hard. “I thought maybe…I don’t know. Maybe he’d want to hear from me. Maybe he missed me too.”
“Of course he does,” she said. “But people get scared. They run. They freeze. Doesn’t mean they don’t feel.”
Benson let out a quiet breath, the kind that carried more weight than sound. “It just hurts. I keep thinking maybe I should’ve fought harder. Asked him more than once to move in with me here. Told him I needed him.”
“You did,” she said. “You were honest. That’s more than most people manage.”
He looked down at the wine, then set the glass aside. “I don’t know what to do now.”
Della reached for his hand, her grip steady. “You keep living. You keep loving. And when he’s ready—if he’s ready—you’ll be here. But you don’t stop being you just because someone else isn’t ready.”
The words settled into him slowly, like warmth after cold. He didn’t feel better. Not yet. But he felt less alone.
They sat there in silence, the lake breathing beside them, the stars overhead quiet witnesses to the ache between them. And for tonight, that was enough.
Benson sat on the porch with Della, the lake stretching out before them in quiet silver. The air was crisp, the kind of cold that hinted at snow but hadn’t yet committed. He cradled a mug of coffee between his hands, more for warmth than taste, and tried not to let the silence feel too heavy. The ache of Kyle’s absence still lingered, but tonight, he let Della’s presence soften the edges.
She shifted beside him, her voice gentle. “You got a lot of Christmas cards this year.”
He looked over, brow furrowed. “From who?”
“Your tenants,” she said, standing up. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you, but…it’s a lot.”
She disappeared into the house, and Benson stared out at the lake, confused. He hadn’t expected anything. Most years, a few cards trickled in—generic greetings, maybe a thank-you scribbled in the corner. But when Della returned, her arms were full. Boxes. Bundles. Stacks tied with ribbon.
She set them down on the porch table with a quiet thud.
Benson blinked. “All of these?”
“Over five hundred,” she said softly. “I counted.”
He reached for the top card, hands trembling slightly. It was handwritten, the envelope addressed with care. Inside, a note in looping script: Thank you for standing with us. Thank you for not raising the rent when everything else went up. You made this Christmas possible.
He opened another. Then another. Each one different, but all echoing the same gratitude. Families. Seniors. Single parents. Young couples. People who had felt seen, protected, respected.
Benson’s throat tightened. He hadn’t done it for recognition. He’d just refused to raise rents when inflation surged, when others said he should. It hadn’t felt like a grand gesture—just the right thing. But now, holding these cards, he realized how deeply it had mattered.
He looked at Della, eyes glassy. “I didn’t know.”
She smiled, kneeling beside the boxes. “They did. And they wanted you to know.”
Benson sat back, overwhelmed. The ache in his chest shifted—not gone, but joined now by something else. A quiet sense of worth. A reminder that even in heartbreak, he had made a difference.
The porch light flickered above them, casting a soft glow over the stacks of cards. And for the first time in days, Benson felt something close to peace
The porch was quiet, save for the soft rustle of ribbon and paper as Benson sorted through the mountain of Christmascards. Della had gone inside to warm up, but he stayed, surrounded by stacks of handwritten gratitude. Over five hundred notes. Each one a voice. Each one a reminder that his choice—his quiet refusal to raise rents—had meant something.
He ran his fingers over the edges of the envelopes, eyes lingering on the names. Families. Retirees. Young couples just starting out. People who had trusted him to do right by them. And he had.
That night, as the stars blinked into view over the lake, Benson made a decision. He would write back. Every single one.
It wasn’t about obligation. It was about connection. About letting them know they weren’t just names on a lease—they were people he saw, people he cared about.
