Nate arrived at my house on a bright Saturday morning, the beginning of June. The kind of summer day that felt too good to be true. The sun was high, the air warm but not stifling. A perfect summer day, or so I thought.
I stood at the door, a little nervous. It had been a while since I’d seen him—since that Christmas dinner where he was a quiet shadow in the corner. Nate was my sister’s son, and after her death, he’d bounced from one temporary home to another. He was the kind of kid you’d meet and forget five minutes later, a polite ghost who never fully existed in your world. I was offering him a chance to spend the summer with us, to be a kid again, to have some space away from the unpredictability of his life.
I opened the door to find him standing there, shifting nervously. His backpack looked too light for a whole summer, and the duffel bag slung over his shoulder looked heavy for a kid his age. But it was the gloves that caught my attention. Black leather gloves, snug around his hands. He was wearing them in the heat of June.
“Nate,” I greeted, pulling him into a brief hug before he could step away. He was a tall kid for fifteen, all elbows and awkwardness, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller, less visible. “You made it.”
“Yes, sir,” he said quickly, then corrected himself. “I mean… Uncle Ethan.”
I chuckled, though it felt like a thin sound. “No need for formalities here, kid. Come on in.”
As we walked inside, I noticed the way he moved—carefully, as if testing each step, as if the floor might give way under him. He wiped his shoes at the door like he didn’t want to track any dust, even though the house was spotless. He thanked me for the water. He thanked Lila, my wife, for asking about the ride. Even the dog got a “thank you” for being in the room.
