I was rich, lived in comfort, and felt empty. The things I had in my life were nice, but I didn’t have any real relationships with other people. Men were interested in me because of my wealth, not because of who I really was.
That is, until I met Lexi, a woman who was poor and determined to stay alive. I was moved by how strong she was, and I ended up giving her a place to stay in my garage, which I now use as a guest house.
Lexi had a painful past: her husband cheated on her and left her for another woman, and her life was broken. Still, when we ate together sometimes, I caught glimpses of her wit, humor, and openness.
As she started to let down her guard, our talks became the best parts of my days. The hole inside me was filled by Lexi, and for the first time in years, I felt like I belonged.
But one bad afternoon, I found something disturbing: dozens of drawings of me that were twisted and gross. Lexi’s art showed an evil side with chains, blood, and a coffin.
As I spoke to her, our dinner conversation became tense. Lexi told me that her paintings were based on her anger and rage, but I still felt betrayed.
Our link was cut off, and I told her to go. There were weeks of quiet between us, and it felt like there was no way to bridge it.
Then, a package showed up with a peaceful picture of me. Lexi’s note had her phone number on it as a request to get back in touch.
First I thought, then I called. As we talked, Lexi’s voice shook, and I knew it was possible to forgive her. Over dinner, we agreed to start over.
When we got back in touch, Lexi told me about her improved stability: she had a job, bought new clothes, and is about to move into an apartment. Our second chance took off, and it filled me with joy.
I had an odd connection with Lexi, one that was formed through shared pain and weakness. It takes a stranger sometimes to show us the beauty in our own flaws.
