My father threw me out on my eighteenth birthday, stole the $3,000 I’d saved from working after school, and used it for my stepbrother. Nine days later, while I was digging through a restaurant dumpster for something to eat, a stranger in an expensive suit called my name and told me my supposedly dead grandfather had left me everything. But there was one condition nobody had warned me about.

I looked at her.

She gave me a gentle smile.

“I’ve been told about the car.”

“By Richard?”

“By your grandfather, in a manner of speaking.”

I took a sandwich.

The first bite nearly hurt. My body had grown accustomed to scarcity so quickly that food felt unfamiliar.

Eleanor waited until I had eaten half of it before speaking.

“Your grandfather spent his final year preparing the house.”

“For me?”

“For the possibility of you.”

“What does that mean?”

“He had no certainty you would come.”

“Did he think I wouldn’t?”

“He thought you might be angry.”

“I am angry.”

“That’s allowed.”

I looked toward the windows. Beyond them, the orchard sloped toward a small pond.

“Was he angry with my father?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why didn’t he confront him?”

“Because he believed forcing his way into your life would only make you pay the price.”

That sounded noble, but I wasn’t ready to forgive a man who had stayed away, even if he had tried to reach me.