“What happened?”
“Brent came by.”
I put the grocery bags down.
“Is everything okay?”
“He asked when I planned to sell the house.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“He says the neighborhood is becoming valuable.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Calvin smiled faintly.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I would consider selling after I was finished living.”
I laughed despite myself.
Calvin didn’t.
“He walked through every room,” he continued. “Kept talking about renovations. Granite counters. New floors. Removing Eleanor’s garden.”
His voice became quieter.
“He spoke as though I were already gone.”
I pulled out the chair across from him.
“You should tell him not to come back.”
“He’s still family.”
“Family shouldn’t make you feel like an obstacle standing between them and a house.”
Calvin studied the unopened envelope.
“Brent wasn’t always this way.”
“Maybe not.”
“He was a sweet boy once.”
“People change.”
“Yes,” Calvin said. “Sometimes they simply become more honest about who they’ve always been.”
That Sunday, he told me something he had never shared before.
He and Eleanor had once had a son.
His name was Thomas.
Thomas died at twenty-four after being struck by a drunk driver while returning home from work.
Calvin said his son had my laugh.
Then he looked away and changed the subject.
I did not realize until much later that this was the first time he had allowed me to see the shape of the grief he carried.
Our final Sunday together seemed completely ordinary.
That is what hurts the most.
I brought groceries, changed a hallway lightbulb, and repaired a loose cabinet hinge.
Natalie had baked apple muffins, and Sophie had drawn Calvin a picture of the two of them standing beneath a purple sun.
Calvin placed the drawing on the refrigerator.
“Purple sun?” he asked.
“It’s sunset,” Sophie explained.
“Of course it is. Your father never understood art either.”
Sophie giggled.
Before we left, Calvin pulled me aside.
“You’ve given me more Sundays than I deserved.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Luke.”
Something in his voice stopped me.
He placed both hands on my shoulders.
His grip was weaker than it had once been, but his gaze was steady.
“Never let anyone convince you that kindness becomes less valuable because it wasn’t rewarded immediately.”
“I don’t expect a reward.”
“I know.”
