Rebecca lived forty minutes away in a polished subdivision with stone mailboxes, oversized driveways, and houses people referred to by names instead of numbers.

Her husband, Trent, sold luxury real estate and always looked as though he had somewhere more important to be — boat shoes in winter, sunglasses balanced on his head indoors.

Rebecca had inherited her mother’s striking features and my stubborn streak, though she wore hers with considerably more polish.

Standing in their bright kitchen, hat twisting in my hands, I asked if I could stay in their finished basement for a few months. Only until my disability payments stabilized.

Only until I got back on my feet.

Rebecca couldn’t look at me. “Dad… this really isn’t a good time.”