They first noticed him in the dust, hands trembling as cans rolled from a torn paper bag, his body bent like his front steps. Helping him home felt like nothing—a reflex born from being the ones no one usually helped. They patched his roof, scrubbed his sink, and stayed to talk when others rushed past. Somewhere between leaky pipes and shared dinners, Bernard stopped being “the old man in the trailer” and became the only grandfather they’d ever really had.

When he disappeared, it felt like abandonment all over again. The lawyer’s envelope shattered that story. Bernard had once lived in glass towers, surrounded by people who knew his name but not his heart. He’d walked away from it all, hiding a fortune until he found something real. The inheritance secured their future; his quiet, stubborn love rewired what “wealthy” would mean for the rest of their lives.