I remember sitting on a hard hospital bench beside a social worker who kept using words like “placement” and “temporary housing,” when Grandpa’s voice cut through the corridor.
“He’s coming home with me.”
That was all it took.
His steady hand on my shoulder. The faint scent of hay and peppermint gum.
From that day on, it was just me, him, and the farm.
The house wasn’t glamorous. Paint peeled off the barn in long ribbons, and every spring the roof leaked like clockwork. But it was ours.
