Diane did not argue. For once, she simply listened. Grandpa, however, insisted that the gift he had promised me was still mine. I protested, but he reminded me that he was eighty-five and had officially stopped taking advice about his own money. Together, we found a small blue house two towns away, with a crooked porch and enough room for a life that finally felt like mine. It was close enough to the hospital that I could walk there when the weather allowed.

I hired a financial planner, set aside part of the money for Caleb’s tuition, and kept enough savings that I would never again have to count gas money from one paycheck to the next. At closing, Caleb hugged me and quietly apologized for laughing at the table. My father took a plea agreement and began repaying what he could. I still visited him sometimes, but our conversations were mostly about ordinary things, because neither of us was ready to pretend everything had been repaired.