Rebecca had filed for divorce. There were other revelations, too — things Trent had chosen not to notice. Money moved between accounts. Hidden bills. Another relationship he’d suspected but refused to confront, because denial seemed simpler than rebuilding a life at forty-eight.

His business was worse off than he’d admitted; unless he found a solution fast, the house would likely be lost within weeks.

The irony settled between us. Nine years earlier, I’d stood in his kitchen with nowhere to sleep, and he’d pointed me toward a roadside motel. Now he sat on my porch, pride broken, hands clasped together.

“Walter,” he said at last, barely louder than the frogs. “I’ve got no right to ask. But is there any chance I could stay out here for a while? I’ll work.

I’ll do anything. Boathouse, couch, storage room, I don’t care. I’ve just got nowhere else.”

The part of me that had been hungry for family wanted to say yes at once. I wanted to feel useful. Generous. Needed. I wanted to turn my old pain into proof that I was a better man than the ones who’d abandoned me.