And a cracked photograph of a man he’d loved.
Over time, even his father began showing up more often. I didn’t know whether Christian could repair every mistake he’d made, and neither did Chase. But at least he’d finally stopped trying to replace memories with expensive things and started making the effort to be present.
As for Chase, he continued mowing my lawn every Saturday.
And I continued paying him.
Not because he needed an excuse to return anymore.
But because the arrangement had become ours.
Sometimes after he finished, we’d sit outside the garage with cold drinks. Sometimes Christian joined him. Other times Chase simply stood inside for a few quiet minutes, looking at the old workbench or tracing the pencil marks on the wall.
I never repainted them.
Houses don’t actually remember the families who lived inside them.
Walls don’t miss people.
