He arrived on a rainy Thursday in October, carrying a small duffel bag and wearing a navy coat that looked far too expensive for the neighborhood I lived in.

I was peeling potatoes in the narrow kitchenette attached to the back room my son referred to as my “space.” In reality, it had once been a storage addition behind the garage. The ceiling was low, the walls thin, and when it rained, I could hear every drop tapping against the metal gutter outside my window. There was just enough room for a single bed, a dresser, a hot plate, and a chair with one uneven leg. My son, Brian, told people I liked the privacy.

I had just wiped my hands on a dish towel when I heard the back gate creak open.

“Grandma?”

I turned so quickly I nearly dropped the knife. “Ethan?”