At first she called me sir and stood with her arms folded, keeping the careful distance her mother had spent years teaching her. But she stayed three days.

She worked in the shop. She sat in on our evening gathering and listened while Frank talked about rebuilding at sixty-three, and heard Manny say a man earns his way back by helping the next person up after him.

On her last morning, she found me pulling weeds in the garden. She stood nearby a moment. “Grandpa.”

The word reached somewhere deep. I kept my eyes on the soil until I could trust them. “Yes, ma’am?”

She glanced toward the cabins. “Mom always said you and Dad walked away from your responsibilities.”

I pulled another weed and dropped it in the bucket. “And now?”