I moved into my late mother’s old house, the only thing left after my husband left me pregnant and completely alone, to start my life over. The house, at the end of the road, looked smaller and colder now, its old wallpaper peeling like a fading memory. Mrs. Harrison, my neighbor, noticed me unloading boxes and asked with thin, twisted lips, “You’re really moving in there?” I forced a smile and said, “Someone has to.” I started unpacking, trying to imagine my baby’s laughter here again. Then I saw him across the narrow road: a man with broad shoulders and gray hair watching me from behind a curtain. Our eyes met, and something strange—maybe recognition—flickered there, but I couldn’t understand how this complete stranger knew me.
That evening, the man crossed the road silently and stopped a few feet away, pointing to a loose porch board. “You’ll trip on that,” he said. He simply offered, “I can help,” and without another word, he crouched down and nailed the board back in place. He stood up, nodded once, and walked away before I could even thank him. Later, Mrs. Harrison softly knocked and mentioned, “You met him, didn’t you? The man across the road?” She confirmed he kept to himself but revealed that my mother “used to talk to him a lot,” and they “sat on the porch together” most evenings. She shared that after my mother stopped, “No one saw him for months,” and mysteriously advised, “You’ll have to ask him what happened.”
Over the next few days, fixing the house, though physically difficult, became my way of stitching myself back together piece by piece. My hands were blistered, but I felt alive. I went across the road to ask the man, whose name I later learned was Harry, if I could borrow a toolbox. Harry looked up, squinting, and told me, “You already have one,” directing me to the cabinet under my stairs. I was stunned he knew this secret, telling myself, “How did he know about that cabinet?” Later, Harry simply walked into my house through the unlocked door to hand me a hammer, explaining, “You shouldn’t leave it unlocked.” He then silently began fixing a cabinet door, and when I asked softly if he knew my mother well, he only said, “Something like that,” before abruptly leaving again.
Mrs. Harrison appeared again that evening and warned, “You shouldn’t talk to Harry too much.” She leaned in, gossiping, “People say he hasn’t been right since your mother passed. Hardly speaks. Stays alone in that house.” Her words sat heavy in my chest; I stood in my old childhood room, the nursery, gazing at the uneven wall I was preparing to hang new pastel wallpaper on. The surface felt colder and rougher, as if the wall was hiding something beneath its surface. I grabbed a scraper, and as the old wallpaper peeled off in long, dusty strips, words began to immediately emerge—shaky, written clearly by my mother’s own handwriting. My heart pounded, and the unfinished sentence beneath the last fragment of paper made my stomach completely twist.
The following morning, I nervously pushed Harry’s half-open door and stepped inside his house. On his mantel, I found a collection of framed photos, and my breath hitched when I saw the first one: me as a little girl with my mother, and next to her stood a man who was unmistakably Harry, but much younger, with his arm resting on my shoulder. “Oh my God,” I thought, seeing my mother and Harry laughing together in another photo. I had always been told my father died before I was born. Harry entered, saw my shaking hands holding the frame, and explained he was my uncle, my mother’s brother, who had moved across the street years later when she became sick.
“All these years… and you lived across the street?” I let out a trembling laugh. Harry sighed and then asked, “You saw it, didn’t you? The wall.” I confirmed, and he offered to help me read the final message. We crossed the road, and Harry began gently peeling the paper away until the full message came into view: “If you ever read this, know that Harry can be the father you never had. Forgive me. Mom.” I turned to Harry, tears blurring my eyes. “Maybe it’s time someone did,” I said about making peace with the past. Harry looked at me and said, “Then let me stay this time.” Outside, thunder rumbled, but inside my mother’s house, it finally felt genuinely warm again.
