The white paint needed repairs.
The porch leaned slightly on the left.
Fresh leaves covered the maple tree beside the water.
I unlocked the door and went inside.
Dust floated in the sunlight.
For the first time in years, the silence did not feel lonely.
It felt like ownership.
I spent the morning opening windows, sweeping the porch, changing sheets, and making lemonade in the same glass pitcher my mother had used every summer.
Around noon, a truck turned into the gravel driveway.
Daniel stepped out wearing jeans, work boots, and an uncertain expression.
“You said the porch needed fixing,” he called.
“I mentioned it.”
“I brought tools.”
I leaned against the doorway.
“And lunch?”
He lifted a paper bag.
“Fried chicken from Miller’s.”
I tried not to smile.
“Acceptable.”
He spent four hours replacing the damaged boards.
I passed him tools and held nails while he measured everything twice, just as my father had taught him.
