Anyway, my neighbor across the hall is an older lady named Mrs. Kaplan. She’s like 80-something, walks with a cane that has a tiny built-in flashlight (respect), and wears a robe with embroidered cats on it. Big grandma energy.
One day, I helped her carry her groceries up the stairs because the elevator was broken. She gave me a butterscotch candy and said, *“You’re a good boy. Just like my grandson.”*
I thought she was being sweet and nostalgic. Nope.
She started calling me “Ben.” My name is not Ben. But every time I corrected her, she just squinted at me and went, *“Don’t be difficult, Ben.”*
So I gave up. I became Ben.
She’d knock on my door with Tupperware full of mysterious casseroles and say things like, *“Eat this. You’re too skinny. Ben was too skinny too. Poor thing.”*
I figured hey, free food. Who am I to argue?
Fast forward: one day she invites me to a “family dinner.” I assume it’s just her and maybe a cat. Nope. I walk in, and half her *actual family* is there. They stare at me like, “Who is this guy?” And she proudly announces:
*“Everyone, this is Ben. He’s back from Tokyo.”*
Now I’m locked into this *insane* roleplay where I apparently lived in Tokyo, work in "tech," and still play the trumpet. I haven’t touched a trumpet since middle school band, but I nod and smile like I’m auditioning for a Netflix series.
Here's the twist: she *knows*. She later pulled me aside and said, *“I know you're not Ben. But I like having you around.”*
Last week, she called me over to help fix her TV, and offhandedly mentioned, *“You’ll take the cat figurines when I’m gone, right? I already put it in the will.”*
So now… I’m inheriting cat figurines. Because I became someone else’s grandson by accident.
And honestly? I think Ben would’ve wanted it that way.
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