It got me crying

My cleaning-lady came yesterday (Tuesday, December 18th, 2012).
She came while I was working out at the YMCA in nearby Canandaigua.
When I do that I leave the garage people-door unlocked, and I once showed her where the secret spare key to my house is.
I trust her. She’s decent.
She left a Christmas-card.
It got me crying.
I called her when I got home in case she was passing by and wanted to get paid.
I reported her card got me crying, so she said she was sorry.
“You don’t need to be sorry,” I told her. “It happens all the time.
I’m not used to all these people caring about my welfare.”
(My wife died eight months ago.)
A few weeks ago another lady came, who lost her husband in a tragic accident, and gave me a homemade sweetbread.
That got me crying too.
She felt badly, but I told her not to.
I was raised by people who told me I was an of-the-Devil scumbag, stupid and reprehensible. So I was unaccustomed to people caring about my wellbeing.
“Me and one of my past clients were talking about you,” my cleaning-lady said.
“That you’re doing extremely well. You cook for yourself, and pursue your daily routine as if nothing happened. Linda would be so proud of you.”
—Linda is my deceased wife.
“Yeah,” I thought. “But she’s no longer here.”

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.)
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. Like me she was 68. I miss her dearly.