The next morning, a construction crew arrived at the collapsed house. Wesley had hired them before he even left Chicago. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt, trading his polished shoes for work boots.
Juniper ran across the yard in her pajamas. “What do you think you are doing?”
He held a clipboard, but his voice remained gentle. “Keeping someone from getting hurt. The structure is unsafe. If a storm comes, it could fall into the road.”
“I did not ask for this.”
“I know. It is not charity. I bought part of the property years ago when you needed help with the mortgage. This is partly my responsibility.”
She froze. “I thought that was a loan I never repaid.”
“It was a gift. And I should have told you that then. I am telling you now.”
One of the workers approached with a dusty box. “Found this in what looks like the old bedroom.”
Juniper’s breath hitched. She recognized the wooden lid. She opened it and stared at the smiling photographs inside. Their wedding day. The first apartment. The picnic near the river. Letters tied with ribbon. Things she could not bring herself to throw away.
Wesley spoke quietly. “You kept them.”
Juniper shut the box. “Nostalgia is not the same as forgiveness.”
“I know.”
The rebuilding took weeks. Wesley arrived every morning before sunrise. He carried lumber. He mixed cement. He hammered until his palms blistered. He learned to work beside the crew like someone who had earned a place there. Sometimes Wren and Poppy sat on the porch and watched him, whispering conspiratorially.
One afternoon, Wesley stopped to drink water, sweat dripping from his brow. Poppy approached with a popsicle.
“You can have mine,” she offered. “It is cherry. The best kind.”
He accepted. “Thank you. That is very generous.”
Wren sat beside him. “Mom said you used to be our dad.”
Wesley paused. “I used to be married to your mom. That made me something like a parent.”
“Could you be our dad again?” Poppy asked with devastating innocence.
“That is not how it works, kiddo.” He set the popsicle stick aside. “Being a father is more than just being around. It means staying, especially when things get hard. I did not do that before. I want to do better now.”
Wren looked toward Juniper, who was sweeping sawdust from the porch. “Mom still looks at you like she remembers something good. She tries not to, but she does.”
Juniper stiffened at the words but did not turn.