For now, just one thing more. No—two things.

The Congolese family new to Harrisonburg, living by the train tracks? I was going there to do English with Dominique. We’d sit side by side, try to talk.

Something was wrong with the stove, Basil told me one day. The oven wouldn’t go on. It’s too long ago and I no doubt have the story all mixed up, but strategizing with my pea brain, I figured Dominique could at least use the microwave on the counter. Did she have the appropriate cookware, though? Not plastic that might leak its microparticles into the food? I got down on the floor to peek into the cabinet.

Dominique must’ve wondered about me.

The upper shelf in the bottom cabinet held a wild assortment of cups and dishes. Off balance, folded awkwardly, pressing against the shelf, I rooted. I didn’t realize it wasn’t properly anchored at one end. When it dislodged, a bunch of the cups slid off and hit the floor and shattered right next to my ears, thunderingly.

No sweeper to clean up my mess, either. Mortified to the core, inching a cloth across the tiles, I knew I could be missing slivers. The three-year-old might land her foot on one.

My husband went later to repair the shelf. I took more cups. But that’s beside the point. I wasn’t helping. I’d wreaked havoc.

And then there’s the incident with the char.

That stove, a crust of blackened residue had accumulated around one of the burner rings, from all the pots of porridge, boiled sweet potato leaves, simmering bananas, what-all. I knew what Dominique needed. She needed scrub pads and Ajax.

Maybe I thought I’d get her some.

But one day when I showed up, she pointed out the transformation. She’d scraped the burner area clean. She’d gone down to the gully along the railroad bed to collect the right kind of dirt (sand?) for scouring. Here I’d thought I—I—was the one with the tricks up her sleeve. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Helping isn’t the least little bit what it’s cracked up to be.