But grief had made room for one more truth.
Mr. Vance had not spent those Saturdays merely watching a teenager mow his grass.
He had been waiting for someone who kept coming back.
On the drive home, Noah kept the envelope on his lap.
Usually he filled quiet car rides by changing songs or checking his phone, but that afternoon he barely touched either one.
When we pulled into our driveway, the house across the street looked exactly as it had that morning.
The same porch.
The same lawn.
The same old chair visible near the front of the house.
Only now Noah knew what had been happening there while he worked.
He stayed in the car after I turned off the engine.
“I used to think the nod meant he wanted me to hurry up and leave,” he said.
I laughed softly because I knew exactly what he meant.
