“Thanks. I’ll give her a chance.” I grieved like a mother who had lost her child without a funeral. There was no closure, just silence. For five long years, I lived alone in the quiet spaces where his laughter used to echo. I tried to move on, tried to let go — but there’s no map for that kind of loss. Then one rainy evening, there was a knock at the door. Liam stood there — older, tired,

with shadows under his eyes and no suitcase. Just him. He looked more like a man than a boy, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakably his. Kayla had kicked him out. Again. He wasn’t there to apologize. He was just looking to survive. But I opened the door and let him in. It wasn’t easy, but slowly — painfully — we began to rebuild something from the ruins. He talked. I listened. He told me how things with Kayla had unraveled: empty promises, leased lies, love that came with conditions. He had believed in her, and she had let him fall. When he finally said, “Thanks for giving me a second chance,” I looked at him — really looked — and said, “That’s what family does.” And for the first time in years, it felt true.