I Helped My Elderly Neighbor Shovel Snow Every Morning — Then a Threatening Note Showed Up
The cold hit my face like a slap as I opened the front door.
“Of course it snowed again,” I muttered. My shovel leaned against the porch railing, waiting.
Micah was still asleep upstairs; the faint hum of his sound machine filled the house.
“Come on, Dako,” I whispered. “Let’s get this over with.”
The neighborhood looked postcard-perfect under the snow, but beauty doesn’t shovel itself. I started on our walkway, counting each shove like I counted bills when I waited tables. By the driveway’s edge, I paused, hands on hips, watching my breath curl into the air.
Three houses down, Lois’s porch light flickered. She cracked her door open—cane first, then foot—and her tiny white dog, Benny, darted out. He barked once, then retreated from the cold.
The snowbank blocking her steps was far too high. Lois didn’t struggle. She stepped back inside, closing the door quietly.
I hesitated a moment, then dragged the shovel behind me to her house. She couldn’t stay trapped inside until the thaw. I didn’t knock. I didn’t wait. I just started clearing a path.
The next morning, I did it again. And the morning after that. By the end of the week, it became routine: mine first, then hers, then home for coffee and shortbread.
Micah noticed.
“Mom helps the dog lady,” he told his friends, like it was just something every mom did.
Lois rarely spoke. Sometimes, she nodded from the window.
“You don’t have to, Dako,” she’d said once.
“I know,” I replied. “That’s exactly why I do it.”
One morning, after clearing her snow, a thermos waited on our step. Warm, heavy, wrapped in a folded towel, it smelled faintly of cloves and cinnamon. No note—but I knew who it was from.
Inside, Micah sat at the table, crayons scattered.
“Did someone give you that?” he asked, pointing.
“It’s tea,” I said. “From Lois. A thank-you.”
“For the snow stuff, Mom?”
“Yes.”
He reached for a blue crayon.
“Can I draw her something?”
“Of course,” I said.
Minutes later, he held up a drawing: Benny barking in a snow pile, Lois waving from her porch, and a giant blue snow angel. I stood on our porch in a green dress.
“This is perfect,” I said. “I’ll put it in her mailbox.”
The next morning, gloves damp and back sore, I left it for her. My heart felt full.
Two days later, a different message appeared. A stiff piece of paper lay on my doorstep. Jagged block letters read:
“NEVER COME AGAIN OR YOU’LL REGRET IT!! LOIS.”
I froze. The words made no sense—not from her, not after everything.
Inside, I checked the doorbell footage. A younger woman in a brown coat had left the note.
“Who…?” I whispered to myself.
Over the next days, Lois vanished. The porch was empty, curtains drawn, no Benny’s bark. A man appeared one afternoon.
“Hi,” I said cautiously. “Is Lois okay? I live nearby… I’ve been clearing her snow.”
“I’m Paul, her great-nephew,” he said. “She’s fine, just needs rest. The snow is too much.”
I noticed a woman moving behind the curtains—likely Alexa, his sister.
“Right,” I said slowly, my mouth dry.
Days passed. I didn’t shovel her walkway again—it felt intrusive.
Then a week later, a letter arrived in a blue envelope, addressed to me.
Inside, Lois wrote:
*”Dear Dako,
They told me not to write… but I remember what’s real. I remember your shovel, the way Benny waited, and Micah’s drawing in my mailbox. Paul and Alexa tried to remove everything, but I left this.
Benny is at the local shelter. I hope you’ll bring him. And for Micah—there’s a small trust, a reminder that kindness matters.
With love,
Lois”*
I read it twice before moving. I didn’t cry, not yet—but my heart leapt knowing she was okay.
“Lois is okay, honey,” I told Micah.
“And Benny?”
“He’s at a shelter, waiting for us.”
We went to pick him up. Benny barked softly when he saw us, tail wagging furiously. Micah laughed and hugged him.
“And neither did she forget us,” I whispered.
A week later, we visited Lois at the care home. Micah carried muffins and sunflowers. Lois smiled slowly, blanket over her lap.
“Benny,” she whispered as he padded to her. “I was hoping you’d bring him.”
“These are from both of us,” Micah said, offering the flowers.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said.
I knelt beside her. “Of course we came.”
She held my hand gently. “Take care of each other,” she said.
Outside, snow began falling again. Benny led the way, and Micah held my hand. I finally felt peace.