But as the attorney continued, everything I thought I knew shifted.
My father, it turned out, had spent years quietly restoring the house. Bit by bit, board by board, coat of paint by coat of paint, he had brought it back to life. He never mentioned these efforts, never hinted at the work he was doing. He simply showed up each day, tending to it the way one tends to something loved.
As those words settled over me, I felt something soften deep within. My father had always expressed affection through actions rather than grand gestures. When I was younger, he repaired broken toys without being asked. As an adult, he’d stop by my apartment with fresh vegetables from his garden or drop off tools because he heard me mention needing them. He wasn’t a man of many words, but he loved through effort—small, steady, quiet.
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