Mom and I argued far less in those later years, mostly because I had learned never to ask about the backyard.

Yet in spite of the changing seasons and the harsh northern snows, Lucas never left his spot behind the fence.

On quiet weekends when I came by, I would see him replacing rotted porch boards or stacking split birch ahead of the fall storms.

In my sophomore year of high school, when my winter boots split at the seams, a sturdy leather pair appeared out of nowhere next to my locker.

“Mom, where did these boots come from?” I had asked that night, admiring their thick insulated soles.