When Luke moved into my house, he behaved as though everything belonged to someone else.
He made his bed perfectly every morning.
Washed his plate the second he finished eating.
Folded towels without being asked.
He moved through every room like a guest terrified of leaving fingerprints.
Like a boy who believed the secret to being allowed to stay was taking up as little space as possible.
It broke my heart.
One Saturday morning, I nearly tripped over a loose porch board.
Before I had fully regained my balance, Luke appeared with a screwdriver.
“How long has that been loose?”
