Chapter 10
“The mortgage payment?”
I stood beside my father's open refrigerator.
He looked embarrassed.
“Hannah, close that door. You're letting all the cold air out.”
I shut it.
Then turned toward him.
“Dad, there's practically nothing in there.”
“I've been managing.”
I'd heard those exact words from Margaret Ellis.
And suddenly, they hurt even more.
“Managing how?”
He pulled out a chair.
“Sit down, honey.”
I remained standing.
“Please tell me.”
My father, Thomas Collins, had spent thirty-five years repairing city buses.
He'd worked early mornings, holidays, and winters so cold that his hands cracked around his tools.
He was a proud man.
The kind who'd fix a neighbor's furnace without charging for labor.
The kind who'd tell you he was fine even when he clearly wasn't.
Since retiring, he'd struggled with the mortgage.
I sent money every month.
But apparently, it hadn't been enough.
“I had some unexpected expenses,” he explained.
“What expenses?”
“The furnace needed work. Property taxes went up. Little things.”
“Those aren't little things.”
He gave me a tired smile.
“Everything becomes a little thing when you get old enough.”
I sat across from him.
“You should've told me you were having trouble buying food.”
“And put more on you?”
“Dad—”
“You've been working yourself to death helping me keep this house.”
His voice softened.
“I didn't want you taking extra shifts because I needed eggs and bread.”
My eyes filled.
He reached across the table.
“I know you think I don't notice what you do.”
I shook my head.
“That's not why I'm upset.”
“Then why?”
“Because I thought you were okay.”
He looked away.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I opened the container I'd brought.
Chicken.
Mashed potatoes.
Green beans.
My father smiled at the smell.
“Your mother used to make chicken like that.”
I laughed through my tears.
“She would've added more pepper.”
“She certainly would.”
He began eating.
I sat with him.
Watching someone I loved enjoy an ordinary dinner suddenly felt more important than anything that had happened at the hotel.
Afterward, I washed the dishes.
On the kitchen wall hung a photograph of my parents standing outside the house.
They were young.
My mother wore a yellow dress.
My father had his arm around her waist.
I'd always loved that picture.
“This is where Mom raised me,” I said.
Dad looked toward it.
“Yes.”
“Doesn't it bother you that we might lose it?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Then said, “Honey, your mother didn't marry a house.”
I turned.
“She married me.”
His voice trembled slightly.
“I've spent the last three years treating these walls like they're the only thing I have left of her.”
My throat tightened.
“But you have your memories.”
“And you.”
He smiled.
“Especially you.”
The next morning, I arrived at the Moretti estate carrying a shopping list.
Teresa was sitting beside her bedroom window.
The blue sewing tin rested on her lap.
“Hannah, sweetheart. How's your father?”
I tried to smile.
“He's all right.”
She studied me.
“Would you like to try that answer again?”
I sat beside her.
And told her the truth.
About the empty refrigerator.
The mortgage.
My father's pride.
She listened quietly.
When I finished, she took my hand.
“It's difficult watching someone you love struggle.”
I nodded.
“You understand that better than anyone.”
Teresa looked down at the tin.
“Vanessa kept saying she wanted to protect Sofia.”
“She did.”
“But she stopped asking Sofia what she wanted.”
I looked up.
Teresa continued.
“Sometimes love becomes something else when we decide we're the only ones who know what's best.”
Those words stayed with me.
Because I'd spent the previous night planning how to save my father's house.
I hadn't once asked whether he still wanted to live there.
Later, Luca joined us for breakfast.
Teresa told him about my father's situation after asking my permission.
He offered to arrange immediate help.
I appreciated it.
But I shook my head.
“Thank you, Mr. Moretti. I need to talk to Dad first.”
Luca nodded.
“Whatever you decide, Hannah.”
There was no pressure.
No condition.
Just respect.
That afternoon, the grocery program resumed its second delivery route.
I helped Eli organize the baskets.
Helen Doyle wanted oatmeal.
Margaret asked about peaches.
Samuel Ortega requested coffee, then immediately insisted it wasn't necessary.
I put it on his list anyway, after he finally admitted he liked the dark roast.
Every person had different needs.
Different preferences.
Different ideas about independence.
And as I carried the last basket into the delivery van, I realized something.
We'd spent days proving that Teresa deserved to make her own choices.
Now I needed to offer my father the same respect.
That evening, I returned to his house.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through old photographs.
“Dad, can we talk about what you want?”
He looked surprised.
“Of course.”
“Do you actually want to stay here?”
He stared at me.
Then slowly placed a photograph facedown.
“Hannah, I was going to tell you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Tell me what?”
He looked around the kitchen.
The old cabinets.
The worn curtains.
The doorway where my mother used to stand.
Then he took a breath.
“I've decided to sell the house.”
I couldn't speak.
May you like
He reached for my hand.
“I've already accepted an offer.”
