When a fierce storm destroyed my neighbor Mr. Harrison’s home, I offered him my spare room. He was a gruff, lonely man in his sixties, and I figured it was the right thing to do. But within days, I understood why he lived alone. He treated me like a maid, constantly saying, “You’re a woman, you should do the housework,” and leaving messes everywhere. My patience wore thin—until a dirty sock fell on my head while I cooked. That was the breaking point.

While I was packing his things to throw him out, I grabbed a bottle with a tiny ship inside. He snatched it away, tears in his eyes. A tag read, “My and Dad’s masterpiece.” It turned out he had a son, Georgie, whom he hadn’t seen in 15 years after rejecting his dream to become a dancer. He admitted he might have been wrong, and I told him he could stay only if he behaved.

Curious, I tracked down George. He was handsome, accomplished, and initially wanted nothing to do with his father. But as we walked and talked, I told him how his dad regretted the past. By the end, he agreed to meet him—on two conditions: I’d go on a date with him, and his dad would make the first move.

I returned home with a bottle kit for Mr. Harrison and insisted he visit his son. Reluctantly, he agreed. I waited in my car as they reunited awkwardly, then began building the ship together, sharing drinks and laughter.

Mom was right—sometimes helping others changes more than one life.