“That is unfair,” she whispered. “You left. You built a life without us. You cannot just come back and expect a welcome parade.”
“I am not expecting anything. Except maybe a chance.”
She shook her head and looked toward the ruined house. “There is nothing left here for you.”
“Maybe I can rebuild something.”
“You already broke it once,” she replied. “I will not let you break it again.”
They stood in silence, and Wesley thought he heard the slow creak of the old house breathing. The wind shifted, carrying the voices of the girls inside.
Finally, Juniper spoke again. “Opal made lunch. You should stay. Just for the meal. Then you can go.”
He nodded. “Thank you. I would like that.”
Inside, the kitchen smelled like cinnamon and roasted chicken. Opal Moreno turned from the stove, her silver hair piled in a bun with the indifference of a woman who had cooked through a dozen storms. She blinked in surprise, but her voice remained even.
“I figured this day would come.” She wiped her hands on a towel. “Sit. Eat. Do not make me regret setting an extra place.”
Wesley sat at the old wooden table, suddenly aware of how small he felt in this kitchen filled with warmth and judgment. The girls peppered him with questions between bites of cornbread. Did Chicago have mountains? Did he have a dog? Did he live in a castle? Did he ever meet celebrities?
Poppy asked, “Why do you live alone?”
His throat tightened. “Some mistakes take a long time to fix.”
Juniper glanced up sharply, warning him with her eyes not to spin fairy tales. After the plates were cleared and the girls ran outside to play on the tire swing, Opal motioned Wesley to help with the dishes. They worked in quiet rhythm until she finally said, “She is frightened. Not of you. Of herself. She is scared she will let herself hope again.”
Wesley rinsed a plate. “What do I do?”
“Stay.” Opal’s voice was firm. “Stay long enough that your presence is not a novelty. Stay until your shadow on the porch is not surprising. Stay and let time decide if you earn another chance.”
He nodded. That night he drove to the only motel in town, a peeling turquoise building with rusted balcony rails. He stared at the ceiling for hours, rehearsing apologies he had never learned to say.