We have established that the Hoarder in this story, was the husband of the Widow. His death stopped the accumulation of stuff, of papers and garbage, of cats and dirt. At the end of his life, as his cancer made him unable to function even in his own dysfunctional manner, he stopped allowing the Widow to clean – to tidy – to attempt any order. It became a free fall into chaos.

I can’t pretend to understand what made him into the obstinate, racist and emotionally abusive man that squelched the Widow’s spirit. I don’t know what he experienced as a child, but something had to have triggered the meanness that the Widow lived with for nearly forty years. Yet, even now, she speaks of him with kindness. She still mourns his death.

The scars from our childhood follow us all the way through our lives, and form the decisions we make. She had suffered sexual abuse as a small child from a farm labourer at a time when sexual abuse was inconvenient and not spoken of in public, never in polite circles. It was shameful and the victim was at fault. She was in the wrong place. She was a tease. She was wearing skimpy clothes. The widow was a child though, and after the farm hand was initially dismissed, he was rehired later because the farmer needed the help.

What kind of message would that send a young child? Not only was the abuser not brought to justice, but later was rewarded when his employment was reinstated. Who was more important? Obviously the man was.

She was ripe for a bully to enter her life.

I don’t think I know a woman from my generation who was not sexually abused, in some manner. Our protectors often were the abusers. If not, we were told that the incident was somehow our fault. Now, we quietly wait for them to die, and wonder how many women we caused to be abused, by our silence. Eyes meeting those of other women across the room, learning to avoid corners, self preservation.

I don’t know the history of the Hoarder. He grew up in a small town, and didn’t get along with his siblings as an adult. He didn’t get along with his neighbours, he didn’t like the Widow’s friends, he didn’t like family gatherings, and if pushed to attend, could be belligerent.

His other side, though was this massive kindness that could flow out of him if you needed help. He would do anything for you if you were in need. If you needed a place to stay, if you needed help with plumbing or moving. When we bought an old house in the late 1990’s, he helped us run a gas line to our stove. He lowered himself through a tiny hole in the floor located in a small cupboard which led to a half-full cistern of water under our kitchen. He ran the line, in this cold water, and got our stove working.

Later that year he and husband worked together to replace our furnace. He was strong, he was tireless in those days and he wanted to help. He loved being needed.

A damaged soul, he also wanted to be a good person, and to be liked and loved.

Unfortunately, the bad often trumps the good when we remember people.