“Why?”
“I finally told him why I keep coming here.”
I waited.
“He didn’t know this house meant more to me than everything he’s ever bought.”
Chase looked down.
“I think he wants to understand.”
“If he really wants to understand, he can come.”
Over the next month, our Saturday routine returned. After Chase finished mowing, we’d sit beside the garage drinking cold sodas while he told me stories about his grandfather—how he’d repaired bicycles for neighborhood kids, how they built birdhouses every Christmas, and how he insisted every scratch on the garage floor had its own story.
One afternoon, I asked:
“Did you ever tell your dad these stories?”
“I used to.”
“What happened?”
“He always said we’d make new memories.”
Chase stared at the concrete floor.
“But he was never around long enough to make them.”
The following Saturday, the black SUV pulled into my driveway.
