The nights he sat through my worries and didn’t tell me to stop being dramatic.

The way he made room for me without ever suggesting I had to earn it.

That was the home my parents had tried to claim.

And it was what they had never understood.

PART 15: The Key to My Own Door

On the anniversary of Grandpa’s death, I woke before sunrise.

I made coffee in his chipped blue mug and sat on the porch wearing the same flannel shirt I’d worn when the moving truck arrived.

The missing button had finally been sewn back on.