The rebuilding took weeks. Wesley arrived every morning before sunrise. He carried lumber. He mixed cement. He hammered until his palms blistered. He learned to work beside the crew like someone who had earned a place there. Sometimes Wren and Poppy sat on the porch and watched him, whispering conspiratorially.
One afternoon, Wesley stopped to drink water, sweat dripping from his brow. Poppy approached with a popsicle.
“You can have mine,” she offered. “It is cherry. The best kind.”
He accepted. “Thank you. That is very generous.”
Wren sat beside him. “Mom said you used to be our dad.”
Wesley paused. “I used to be married to your mom. That made me something like a parent.”
“Could you be our dad again?” Poppy asked with devastating innocence.
“That is not how it works, kiddo.” He set the popsicle stick aside. “Being a father is more than just being around. It means staying, especially when things get hard. I did not do that before. I want to do better now.”
Wren looked toward Juniper, who was sweeping sawdust from the porch. “Mom still looks at you like she remembers something good. She tries not to, but she does.”
Juniper stiffened at the words but did not turn.