“And your father?”
“He wasn’t around.”
I thought about the black SUV.
“He had money?”
“He always had money. He just fought Mom about helping us. By the time the court finally ordered child support, we’d already packed everything.”
Chase swallowed.
“I used to ride my bike past here after we moved. Then I saw the For Sale sign. When you finally bought the place, I thought…”
He looked toward the backyard.
“…if I couldn’t live here anymore, maybe I could still take care of it.”
“You didn’t actually need a mowing job.”
He shook his head.
“That wasn’t the real reason.”
“What were you looking for?”
His answer came quietly.
“Home.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked about the day I’d caught him inside the garage.
“I wasn’t stealing anything,” he said quickly. “I just sat at Grandpa’s workbench. I remembered where his tools used to hang and where our bikes stood. When I walked up that afternoon and found the garage open…”
He stopped himself.
“No. That’s not true. I found a way in because I knew the old latch. And when I was inside, I forgot for a few minutes that it wasn’t ours anymore.”
Those words landed harder than I expected.
“I forgot it wasn’t ours anymore.”
“You didn’t take anything?”
“I didn’t want anything. I just missed my grandfather.”
I believed him.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I was afraid you’d tell me I couldn’t come back.”
“I probably would’ve.”
“I know.”
We both laughed, and some of the tension finally disappeared.
“Go mow the lawn.”
Chase blinked.
“You still want me to?”
“I’ve got a feeling you’re the only person who actually cares whether every row is straight.”
He smiled and headed toward the door, but stopped before reaching it.
“Mr. Rick?”
“Yeah?”
“If my dad wanted to see the garage… would you let him?”
“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:
