For five years, my mother had measured Ethan’s worth by his bank account.
And all that time, he’d been quietly working to give me something money alone could never explain.
A connection to the father I’d lost.
Ethan picked up my coat.
“Would you like to see it?”
I could only nod.
Thirty minutes later, we turned onto a street I hadn’t visited in years.
I recognized the neighborhood immediately.
The narrow road.
The old trees leaning over the pavement.
The familiar houses tucked behind small front gardens.
Then Ethan turned the corner.
And there it was.
White siding.
A pale blue front door.
The uneven stone walkway.
And the enormous oak tree rising behind the roof.
My childhood home.
I pressed a hand against my mouth.
“Ethan…”
He parked the car.
For several moments, I couldn’t move.
I was twelve years old again, watching strangers carry our furniture into a moving truck.
