“Go mow the lawn.”
Chase blinked.
“You still want me to?”
“I’ve got a feeling you’re the only person who actually cares whether every row is straight.”
He smiled and headed toward the door, but stopped before reaching it.
“Mr. Rick?”
“Yeah?”
“If my dad wanted to see the garage… would you let him?”
“Why?”
“I finally told him why I keep coming here.”
I waited.
“He didn’t know this house meant more to me than everything he’s ever bought.”
Chase looked down.
“I think he wants to understand.”
“If he really wants to understand, he can come.”
Over the next month, our Saturday routine returned. After Chase finished mowing, we’d sit beside the garage drinking cold sodas while he told me stories about his grandfather—how he’d repaired bicycles for neighborhood kids, how they built birdhouses every Christmas, and how he insisted every scratch on the garage floor had its own story.
One afternoon, I asked:
“Did you ever tell your dad these stories?”
“I used to.”
“What happened?”
“He always said we’d make new memories.”
Chase stared at the concrete floor.
“But he was never around long enough to make them.”
The following Saturday, the black SUV pulled into my driveway.
A man climbed out alone.
“I’m Christian. Chase’s father.”
“I figured.”
He looked toward the garage.
“Chase said I should see it. He thinks I’ll understand if I do.”
“Will you?”
Christian gave a tired smile.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe not. But showing up is a start.”
He nodded.
Then he thanked me for giving Chase work.
“He talks about this place constantly. I didn’t understand how important it was.”
Christian stared at the old garage.
“I honestly thought I was doing enough.”
“The money?”
“The support payments. Clothes. Weekends.”
I folded my arms.
“Were you?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Finally, he shook his head.
“Probably not.”
For the first time, I didn’t see him as some rich villain who didn’t care about his son.
I saw a man who had confused providing money with being a parent.
“They’re not the same thing,” I said.
“I know.”
His shoulders dropped.
“I just wish I’d figured that out sooner.”
That afternoon, Christian and Chase sat together in my backyard for nearly an hour.
I stayed inside.
Whatever needed to be said belonged to them.
When Christian finally drove away, Chase knocked on my back door.
“He apologized.”
“How’d that go?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He shrugged.
“But it was the first conversation we’ve had in years that wasn’t about school, grades, schedules, or money.”
“That’s something.”
“I think so.”
PART 3
A few days later, I decided it was finally time to clean the garage.
