Wesley sat at the old wooden table, suddenly aware of how small he felt in this kitchen filled with warmth and judgment. The girls peppered him with questions between bites of cornbread. Did Chicago have mountains? Did he have a dog? Did he live in a castle? Did he ever meet celebrities?
Poppy asked, “Why do you live alone?”
His throat tightened. “Some mistakes take a long time to fix.”
Juniper glanced up sharply, warning him with her eyes not to spin fairy tales. After the plates were cleared and the girls ran outside to play on the tire swing, Opal motioned Wesley to help with the dishes. They worked in quiet rhythm until she finally said, “She is frightened. Not of you. Of herself. She is scared she will let herself hope again.”
Wesley rinsed a plate. “What do I do?”
“Stay.” Opal’s voice was firm. “Stay long enough that your presence is not a novelty. Stay until your shadow on the porch is not surprising. Stay and let time decide if you earn another chance.”
He nodded. That night he drove to the only motel in town, a peeling turquoise building with rusted balcony rails. He stared at the ceiling for hours, rehearsing apologies he had never learned to say.