The cold hit my face like a slap the moment I opened the front door.
“Of course it snowed again,” I muttered, already reaching for the shovel leaning against the porch railing. Upstairs, Micah was still asleep. I could hear the steady hum of his sound machine through the ceiling, a small comfort in the early-morning quiet.
“Alright, Dako,” I sighed to myself. “Let’s get it done.”
Our neighborhood always looked peaceful after a snowfall — the kind of place people take pictures of and turn into holiday cards. Everything soft, white, untouched. But beauty doesn’t shovel itself.
I started on our walkway, the rhythm of scoop and toss settling into my arms. I counted each motion without thinking, the same way I counted tips when I used to waitress — automatically, methodically. By the time I reached the end of the driveway, my breath was fogging the air and my shoulders burned.
That’s when I noticed the porch light three houses down flicker on.
Lois’s front door opened slowly. First her cane appeared. Then her foot. Then Benny — a tiny white blur of fur — squeezed out beside her and barked once before deciding the cold was not for him. The snowbank blocking their steps was nearly as tall as he was.
Lois didn’t struggle. Didn’t sigh. She simply turned back inside and closed the door like this was just another thing she’d learned to live with.
I stood there longer than I meant to, my shovel resting against my leg.
Then I turned and headed down the sidewalk.
I didn’t knock. I didn’t ask. I just started clearing her path.
That morning turned into the next morning. And the one after that.
By the end of the week, it was routine. I’d shovel my place, then hers, then head home for coffee and a couple of shortbread cookies before Micah woke up.
Micah figured it out quickly.
“Mom helps the dog lady,” he told his friends once, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like every mom just did that.
Lois never made a fuss. Sometimes she’d nod at me through the window. Once, she cracked the door open and said, “You don’t have to do this, Dako.”
“I know,” I told her. “That’s why I do.”
One morning, after I finished shoveling, I found a thermos sitting on my front step.
It was warm. Heavy. Wrapped carefully in a folded kitchen towel.
When I unscrewed the lid, the steam carried the scent of cloves and cinnamon. Tea. Strong and spiced just right. There was no note, but I didn’t need one.
Back inside, Micah sat cross-legged at the table, crayons scattered everywhere.
“Did someone give you that?” he asked, pointing.
“Tea,” I said, smiling. “From Lois. I think it’s her way of saying thank you.”
“For the snow stuff?”
“Yes. For the snow stuff.”
He thought about that for a moment, then grabbed a blue crayon. “Can I draw her something?”
“Of course.”
While he worked, I rinsed mugs and mixed muffin batter. Ten minutes later, Micah held up his drawing proudly.
“It’s us,” he said. “You, me, the dog, and the angel.”
Benny was barking in a pile of snow. Lois was waving from her porch. And there, between the houses, was a giant blue snow angel with arms stretched wide like wings.
“It’s perfect,” I told him.
I slipped it into her mailbox the next morning after clearing her steps.
My gloves were soaked. My back hurt. But my heart felt light.
Then, two days later, everything changed.
The note was curled on my doorstep, stiff from the cold.
I bent down and unfolded it slowly.
NEVER COME AGAIN OR YOU’LL REGRET IT!!
— LOIS
I just stood there, staring.
It didn’t make sense. Not her handwriting. Not her tone. Not after the tea. The drawing. The quiet nods through the window.
Inside, my hands shaking, I opened the doorbell camera footage.
I needed to see it.
The video showed a hooded figure approaching in the early hours before sunrise. They moved quickly, deliberately. Gloved hands placed the paper on my step.
The face never showed.
But I noticed something else.
The person didn’t come from Lois’s direction.
They came from the other side of the street.
That morning, I didn’t shovel her walkway.
I watched from my window as snow piled up again on her steps. An hour passed. Then two.
Finally, Lois opened her door.
She took one look at the snowbank and froze.
Then she looked toward my house.
She walked — slowly, carefully — all the way down the sidewalk to my porch.
“I thought something happened to you,” she said, worry written all over her face. “You didn’t come.”
I held up the note.
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t write that.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “I checked.”
That’s when she told me about Mr. Crandall across the street. The complaints. The muttering about “property lines” and “liability.” The warnings she’d brushed off because she didn’t want to cause trouble.
We called the police together.
Turns out, he’d left similar notes on other doors before.
He was warned. Then fined. Then told, very clearly, to leave us alone.
The next morning, I shoveled her walkway again.
And the next.
And the one after that.
Because kindness doesn’t stop just because someone tries to scare it away.
Micah still calls her “the dog lady.”
And every winter morning, when I step out into the cold, I remind myself of something important:
Most people don’t need grand gestures.
They just need someone willing to show up — again and again — even when it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable, or cold.
