My nephew came to live with me for the whole summer. From the moment he arrived, he always wore black gloves. Every day. Even when he was inside the house. When I finally asked him why, he gave me a small, practiced smile and said, “Uncle… my hands are just sensitive.” At first, I didn’t question it. But one morning, I quietly pushed open the bathroom door. He was standing at the sink. The gloves were off. And the moment I saw his palms… my heart almost stopped.

When I opened the door, he was standing there shifting awkwardly. His backpack looked too light for three months away, while the duffel bag over his shoulder seemed heavy for someone his age.

But what caught my attention immediately were the gloves.

Black leather gloves.

In the middle of June.

“Liam,” I said, pulling him into a quick hug before he could step back. He’d grown tall—fifteen now—but still all elbows and nervous energy. His shoulders curved inward like he was trying to shrink himself.

“You made it.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered quickly before correcting himself.
“I mean… Uncle Daniel.”

I laughed softly. “Relax. No need to be formal here. Come inside.”

As we walked in, I noticed how carefully he moved, like he was testing every step. He wiped his shoes twice on the mat even though they were already clean.

He thanked me for the water.

He thanked Maya, my wife, for asking about the trip.

He even murmured “thanks” to the dog for sitting nearby.

But it wasn’t just the politeness.

It was the gloves.

He kept them on during dinner. When we had tacos that night, he didn’t even touch the food directly. He lifted it using a napkin instead, as if his hands couldn’t make contact with anything.