Why did every conversation with his own son feel like walking on fragile glass?
He went downstairs, grabbed his keys, and was about to leave when the doorbell rang.
It was 9:30.
Thirty minutes early.
Andrew opened the door with a slight frown. He disliked people arriving late—but arriving early also felt like a lack of respect for his schedule.
Standing on the porch was a woman about twenty-eight years old. She had brown hair tied back in a simple ponytail, wore jeans and a white shirt, and carried a slightly worn backpack.
“Good morning,” she said politely. “I’m Grace.”
Her voice was calm and confident. She met Andrew’s gaze without hesitation.
“You’re early,” Andrew said. “The interview was scheduled for ten.”
“I know,” she replied. “I’m sorry. The bus arrived sooner than expected, and I thought it would be better to wait here than wander around the neighborhood.”
At least she was honest.
Andrew stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Grace entered the house and looked around quietly. She didn’t appear intimidated by the luxury or overly impressed by it. She simply observed everything calmly.