Goodstorie

The Unexpected Arrival

Hello, I am Peter. I am 32 years old and live in New York, an independent man with a stable career. I had been away from my family for a long time, more than 5 years, until a month ago when they suddenly showed up and started causing trouble for me. That day, after a long and exhausting day at work, I only wanted to go home, take a hot shower, and get a good night’s sleep. But the moment I stepped out of my car, I froze.

Standing at my doorstep were familiar faces I hadn’t seen in years: my parents, the ones who had always favored my younger sister throughout my childhood; Linda, my sister who was used to being spoiled; Jon, her husband, a jobless man who lived off others; their two kids, innocent and clueless about what was happening. They all looked at me with hopeful eyes. I blinked a few times, unable to believe what I was seeing. Why were they here? How did they even get my address? Why did the neighborhood security let them in without informing me? A flood of questions ran through my mind. But the one that worried me the most was, they didn’t look like they were just here for a casual visit.

When I stepped out of my car, I hadn’t even had the chance to loosen my tie when my mother rushed over, her voice dripping with false warmth. “Peter, how have you been?” I didn’t answer right away. How many years had it been since I last heard that voice show any concern for me? I glanced at her, then at the others. My father stood behind her with his arms crossed, his voice low, as if he were about to lecture me. “It’s been a long time since we last saw you.” I stayed silent, my gaze sweeping over all of them. Linda and Jon said nothing, but I could see the anticipation in their eyes. Their two kids stood behind them, peeking at me with innocent, clueless expressions.

My mother spoke again, her voice softer this time but carrying an unmistakable sense of pressure. “Aren’t you going to invite the family inside?” I looked down at the neatly stacked luggage beside Linda. A wave of irritation surged through me. I frowned, crossed my arms, and spoke firmly. “No. First, tell me, why are you here?”

Linda glanced at our parents as if waiting for them to speak first, but then she stepped forward, her voice sickeningly sweet – a clear sign that something was wrong. “You know, Mom and Dad’s house is too small now that we have two kids. It’s just so cramped.” I stared at her. Linda smiled as if what she was about to say was the most natural thing in the world. “You live alone in such a big house. What do you think about letting us move in?”

I froze. What the hell did I hear? I frowned, looking at each of them, searching for some sign that this was a joke. “You’re saying I should share my house?” I asked, needing confirmation that I hadn’t misheard. My father sighed deeply, as if I were the unreasonable one. “You should share your house with Linda,” he said, his voice firm and authoritative. “She’s your sister, and those kids are your nephews. You should be willing to share a little.”

I felt my blood boiling. They were serious, weren’t they? Right then, my oldest nephew, Liam, just 8 years old, grabbed my hand and spoke in his small, innocent voice. “Uncle Peter, I love this house! Can I have my room?” For a brief second, I felt my resolve waver. But then I clenched my fists, regaining my clarity. I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and said it plainly. “No. Not only will you not move in, but you’re not even stepping inside my house.”

My mother’s face darkened instantly, but I continued before she could say anything. “I’ve been dead to you for 5 years, haven’t I? Ever since the day I went bankrupt and came back asking for a place to stay, and you, my parents, turned me away.”

I let out a short laugh, but it had no humor. “You’re right. I’m a man, and I don’t need a family like this.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I stared at him, then slowly repeated word for word, “So what you’re saying is I should be grateful? Grateful for this toxic family?” Without hesitation, he nodded. “That’s right.”

I didn’t say another word. Not a second more would be wasted on them. I turned on my heels, walked straight to my car, opened the door, and started the engine. But before I left, I rolled down the window, giving them one last glance. My voice was colder than ever. “You have 10 minutes to leave. If not, the police will handle it.” I stepped on the gas and drove away, leaving behind the people I once called family.

I drove to the neighborhood gate, rolled down my window, and looked straight at the security guard. My voice was firm, without a hint of hesitation. “From now on, if they return, don’t bother notifying me. Just call the police.” The guard, a middle-aged man with a weathered face, stared at me momentarily. Maybe he had witnessed the scene earlier, perhaps he understood what was happening. Without asking a single question, he gave me a resolute nod. “Understood, sir.” With nothing more to say, I nodded back, stepped on the gas, and drove off.

I didn’t know where I was going. I had no destination. I just wanted to get as far away from there as possible. But no matter how far I went, one thing followed me like a relentless flood: memories. Old, buried images that I had long forced myself to forget suddenly came rushing back, vivid and sharp, as if they had happened just yesterday.

Echoes of a Neglected Past

The younger me sat quietly in a corner of the living room, watching my sister Linda open her birthday presents. I remember her face lighting up as she tore off the wrapping paper, revealing expensive toys and beautiful dresses. Around her, my parents laughed joyfully, and relatives clapped and cheered. Laughter filled the room, warm wishes echoed through the air – a grand celebration all for her. I remember just standing there, silently watching it all.

What about my birthday? No party, no cake, no guests. Just a quick handshake from my father and a dull, indifferent remark from my mother: “Happy birthday.” And that was it. Gifts? I only received practical things: textbooks, pens, and a new school bag. There was nothing wrong with those gifts, but when all I ever got were practical things while my sister had everything she wanted…

I remember the first time I got the highest score in my class. Excited, I rushed home to show my parents, hoping for praise and recognition. But my mother only glanced at the report card before setting it down on the table as if it were nothing special. “Good job, son,” a short, indifferent remark. Then she turned to Linda and asked what she wanted for dinner. That was it. Nothing more. I stood there, holding my certificate, feeling like I had just been pushed aside.

I remember the most critical moment of my life: the day I received my acceptance letter from a prestigious University. Holding the letter in my hands, my heart pounded with excitement. I had hoped for a moment to remember, for some recognition from my family. During dinner, I handed the letter to my parents, waiting for that proud look in their eyes. But my father only nodded indifferently. “Good job, son. Study hard.” And then he went back to eating as if it were nothing special. My mother didn’t ask about my plans or if I needed anything for the upcoming school year. Instead, she turned to Linda and started discussing shopping plans for her summer vacation. I sat there, forcing myself to swallow the lump in my throat along with my dinner. No one asked about me, no one cared what I wanted. I folded the letter, slipped it into my pocket, and told myself I would never expect anything from them again.

Painful memories swirled in my mind, but I refused to let them drown me. If there was one thing my childhood had taught me, it was this: no one would help me except myself. And so, I decided to carve my path.

Building My Own Empire, and Their Return

After graduating from University, I didn’t take the traditional route of working for someone else. Instead, I teamed up with my two closest friends, Jake and Emily, to start our own business. We didn’t have much capital. I invested all my savings from years of part-time jobs, while Jake and Emily borrowed money from their families. We rented a tiny office – a small room with three old desks and a cheap coffee maker. Every day, we worked tirelessly: cold calling clients, sending emails, building business plans, and meeting with investors.

We failed over and over again. There were days I questioned if we were on the wrong path. There were nights I stared at our financial statements, watching our funds slowly drain, and I felt fear creeping in. But I didn’t give up, because I knew that if I returned to where I had started, I would have nothing.

In our first year, we struggled just to survive. In the second year, we landed our first real clients. By the third year, our revenue had tripled. By the fourth year, we had over 40 employees and expanded into a new office. By the fifth year, our company had become one of the fastest-growing businesses in the industry. I bought myself a spacious house – a place I could call home, something I had never felt while living with my family. I did it. I built everything on my own.

And when I stood at the peak of success, I made a mistake – a mistake that took me years to realize. I believed that if I became successful, my parents would finally acknowledge me. If I had helped them enough, they would have seen me differently, maybe even be proud of me. But the truth was far from that. As my company grew, my parents started calling more often. Every time they began with seemingly caring questions: “How have you been? How’s work going?” But I soon realized that their concern was just a prelude. After a few pleasantries, the requests would come.

My father told me he was getting old, that my mother wasn’t as healthy as before, and that as their successful son, I had a responsibility to take care of them. “We’re family, son, you should support your parents a little.” “A little” by their definition meant $1,000 a month wired directly into their account as an unofficial retirement fund. Then came Linda. She said raising kids was expensive, and Liam was only two then. Jon still hadn’t found a stable job. “Can you help me out a little?” In this case, “a little” meant $500 a month to hire a babysitter and ease the stress. And it didn’t stop there. Jon had his request. “I’m looking for a job, but my car is too old. It’s hard to get around.” He spoke to me as if we were negotiating a business deal. “If I had a new car, I could drive to interviews, land a better job, and care for Linda and our son.” According to Jon’s calculations, a new car would cost at least $10,000.

I gave them everything they asked for. I sent money to my parents every month. I helped Linda with childcare costs. I handed Jon the cash for his car. I did it for 2 years without a single complaint or second thought, because I believed that one day they would finally acknowledge me, that they would indeed be proud of what I had accomplished.

The Fall and The Unforgivable Betrayal

And then COVID-19 struck, wiping out everything I had worked so hard to build. At first, I could weather the storm. My company had overcome countless challenges before; indeed, a pandemic wouldn’t bring us down. But I was wrong. Clients cut contracts, projects were put on hold, and revenue plummeted. Within months, I watched every brick of my small empire crumble. I tried everything. I took out loans to keep things afloat, slashed costs, and scrambled for solutions. But when the entire economy froze, no one cared about a consulting firm anymore. Contracts were canceled one after another, my bank account drained, and eventually, I had no choice but to declare bankruptcy.

And the worst was yet to come. I lost everything, but the debts remained: business debts and personal ones, bank loans and investments. I sold everything I owned to pay them off, including the house I once considered my most outstanding achievement. From someone who had it all, I became someone with nothing. At that moment, I had only one option left. I drove to my parents’ house, hoping that no matter what, they were still my family, that no matter what happened, I would have a place to return to.

I pulled up in front of their house, hesitation weighing my chest. I didn’t want to be here, but I had nowhere else to go. Taking a deep breath, I exited the car and rang the doorbell. The door opened, and my mother stood there, looking me up and down. I had braced myself to hear “Are you okay?” or at least see some concern on her face. But the first thing she said was, “Why didn’t you call first?”

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat, trying to stay calm. “I’m having a hard time. My company went under. I have nowhere else to go. Can I stay here for a while?”

My father stepped out from inside, arms crossed, looking at me as if I had just said something absurd. “Stay?” He raised an eyebrow. “Peter, you’re a grown man. A man takes care of himself.” My mother nodded in agreement. “Your father is right. You can’t just rely on family whenever things go wrong.”

A cold feeling settled in my chest. I looked at them, searching for some hint of sympathy, some warmth. But there was none. “I just need a place to stay for a few months. I’ll get back on my feet soon.”

My father sighed, shaking his head as if I were putting him in a difficult position. “Want to stay? Pay $2,000 in rent each month.” I froze. I thought I had misheard. “$2,000?”

I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I just lost everything. Do you think I have $2,000 to pay rent?”

I turned to my mother, hoping she would say something, that she would stop him. But she only sighed. “Peter, I know things are hard for you, but everyone has their problems. We can’t take care of you forever.” Something inside me broke. They didn’t ask if I was okay. They didn’t care about what I had lost. They only cared about what I could still do for them. I looked at them one last time and slowly nodded. “I understand.” Then, without another word, I turned around, got back into my car, and drove away, without knowing where I was going next.

I drove aimlessly, with no destination in mind. All I knew was that I couldn’t go back there. I had nothing left – no money, no home, and no family to turn to. Pulling over on a quiet street, I rested my head against the steering wheel. An overwhelming emptiness consumed me. My father’s words kept replaying in my mind: “We can’t take care of you forever.” I never asked them to take care of me. I just needed a place to sleep, a little warmth. But even that was too much to ask.

My phone rang. For a moment, I considered ignoring it, but then I saw the name on the screen and hesitated: Ryan, an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. I answered, trying to steady my voice, not wanting to sound as drained as I felt. “Peter, where are you? I saw you drive by, but you didn’t notice me.” I frowned. “Where are you?”

I hesitated. When was the last time I sat down with someone to have a normal conversation? I had nowhere else to go, and Ryan, at least, was a familiar face. “I’ll be right there.”

I walked into the cafe, trying to act normal. Ryan stood up and clapped me on the shoulder, as if no time had passed between us. “You look rough, man. This… it’s been a while, huh?”

Ryan shrugged and waved down the barista to order me a coffee. “I’m good, but you, you don’t exactly look like you’re having the time of your life.” I thought about lying, but then I realized I didn’t have to, not in front of a real friend. I took a deep breath and told Ryan everything: the company going under, losing my home, my own family turning their backs on me, even the part where my parents asked me to pay rent to stay with them. Ryan sat quietly, listening without interruption. When I finally stopped, he let out a long sigh and shook his head. “I can’t believe it. They did that to you?”

Ryan studied me momentarily before nodding like he had made up his mind. “Listen, my place isn’t huge, but I have a spare room. If you need a place to stay, it’s yours. No questions asked.”

I opened my mouth to refuse on instinct, but Ryan raised a hand, cutting me off. “No buts. I know you. You’re not the kind of guy who takes advantage of people. If the situation were reversed, you’d do the same for me.” My throat tightened. No conditions, no judgment, no cold stares or dismissive words like the ones from my parents. Just a friend offering to help without expecting anything in return. I took a deep breath, then nodded. “Thank you, Ryan.”

When I stepped into Ryan’s house, I felt something I had never felt in my own home: warmth. His wife greeted me with a smile. She didn’t ask too many questions and didn’t make me feel like a failure. Dinner was simple, but I realized it was the first authentic family meal I had participated in in years. No judgment, no favoritism, no one making me feel like an outsider. That night, I slept in a small room, but I didn’t feel alone. For the first time in a long time, I stayed at Ryan’s house for nearly a week, but knew I couldn’t rely on my friend forever. I had lost everything, but I hadn’t lost the most important thing: my ability to get back up. Ryan understood that. As we drank coffee one morning, he sat down his newspaper and looked at me. “So, do you have a plan yet?”

Ryan thought for a moment, then clapped his hands on the table. “I know someone who owns a small woodworking shop on the outskirts of town. It’s not an office job like you’re used to, but if you’re willing to do hands-on work, I can put in a good word for you.” Woodworking. I had never imagined myself doing that kind of work. But at this point, I had no other choice.

A New Beginning and Unexpected Kindness

The next day, I met Mr. Smith, the workshop owner. He was a man in his 50s, tall and strong, with rough hands – the hands of someone who had worked with wood his entire life. He looked me up and down, assessing whether I could handle the job. “I hear from Ryan that you need work,” he said, his voice deep but firm. “Do you have any experience in woodworking?”

Mr. Smith crossed his arms, thinking for a moment, then nodded. “Good. We don’t need degrees here. We need people willing to work hard. It’s not easy, but I’ll give you a chance if you’re ready to learn.” I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll give it everything I’ve got.”

Being a carpenter was nothing like being a CEO. No fancy office, no high-stakes meetings, no financial reports. Just wood dust, saws cutting through timber, and sweat. On my first day, I came home with blistered hands, an aching back, and clothes covered in sawdust. But I felt better than I had in weeks. Better than those days spent sitting alone in my car, unsure of what to do with my life. Mr. Smith didn’t treat me like a failure. He didn’t care who I used to be or how much money I once had. Here, all that mattered was the work and the effort I put in. One night, after we finished a big order, Mr. Smith walked into the workshop and clapped me hard on the shoulder. “You did good, Peter.” I froze. That simple praise meant more to me than any recognition I had ever received from my parents.

After a few weeks, I started feeling like I had value again. I was no longer a businessman who had lost everything; I was someone who could build something with my own two hands. One evening as I was cleaning up the shop, Mr. Smith glanced at me. “Do you have a place to stay?” I hesitated. “Not yet.” He nodded as if he had already expected that answer. “There’s a small room in the workshop. It’s not a five-star hotel, but you won’t have to sleep in your car.” I looked at him, unsure of what to say. I had lost faith in my family, but strangers like Ryan and Mr. Smith were willing to help me without asking for anything in return. I took a deep breath and nodded. “Thank you. Really.”

That night, I lay on a hard bed in a tiny room. It wasn’t luxurious, it wasn’t spacious, but for the first time in a long while, it was a place I could call home. Two years had passed since the day I started over from nothing. I had become a skilled carpenter. From someone who once ran a large company, no one knew me as CEO Peter anymore, only as Peter who worked hard in Mr. Smith’s workshop. And I no longer cared about the past. Here, I learned to appreciate the simple things, to find honesty in working with my hands, and most importantly, to find myself again. I thought I would stay in this trade forever, until one day a phone call changed everything.

The Second Chance

I was working on a wooden door frame that afternoon when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen: “Jake.” I frowned. It had been so long since we last spoke. For a few seconds, I hesitated, then answered. Jake’s voice came through, full of excitement. “Peter, man, it’s been ages!” I gripped the phone tighter, holding back a small smile. Hearing an old friend’s voice after all this time felt strange. “Yeah, it has.”

I glanced down at my hands, covered in sawdust, rough with calluses. I looked around the workshop, which had been my home for the past two years. “I’m good,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “What about you?”

Jake took a deep breath before answering. “Emily and I have been thinking a lot, and want to start over.” I froze, gripping the phone tighter. “You mean, we want to rebuild, Peter, and you’re the first person we thought of.” I said nothing. I had never considered going back to that life, but hearing those words from Jake, I knew an opportunity like this wouldn’t come twice. On the other end, Jake’s voice was filled with hope. “You don’t have to decide now, but… no, we need you.” I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “I need to think about it.”

That night, I sat alone in the tiny room at the workshop, staring at the ceiling. I had lost everything once. Was I ready to take that risk again? I didn’t want to return to the place where I had fallen, but I also couldn’t ignore the ambition still flickering inside me. I knew what I had to do, but there was one thing harder than deciding to start over: saying goodbye to Mr. Smith. Two years ago, he gave me a chance when I had nothing. When my family turned their backs on me, he gave me a place to sleep, a job, and a sense of dignity to rebuild my life. Now I was about to leave, but the thought of it weighed heavily on my heart.

The following day, I walked into the small office behind the workshop where Mr. Smith sat with his usual hot coffee. I stood there long, struggling to find the right words, but he had already looked up, his calm, knowing eyes meeting mine. “Peter, you have something to say, don’t you?” I flinched slightly. He always saw right through me. Taking a deep breath, I nodded. “Mr. Smith, I… I want to resign.” He didn’t look surprised. He wasn’t angry either. He nodded as if he had expected this all along. “What’s next for you?”

I clenched my fists. “Two old friends want me to restart a business with them. I thought about it a lot and want to try again.” He studied me silently momentarily, his sharp gaze assessing my determination. Then he slowly set his coffee down. “Do you have capital?”

He raised an eyebrow, then let out a low chuckle. “You’ve done well, Peter. But you know, $30,000 isn’t much.” I frowned, unsure of what he meant. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and transferred money right in front of me. A moment later, my phone vibrated. I looked down: a notification from my bank. “$100,000 deposited into your account.” I froze. Slowly, I looked up at Mr. Smith, unable to find my voice. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his deep voice steady. “I’m loaning it to you. No interest. Pay me back when you can.”

I didn’t know how to react. “Mr. Smith, this is too much! I can’t—”

This time, I couldn’t hold it in. Tears fell. I turned away, wiping them quickly, but he had already seen. “Don’t be afraid to cry, Peter,” he said. “Sometimes the strongest man is the one who isn’t afraid to show when he’s moved.” I let out a shaky laugh through my tears. I had never cried in front of my father, but today, standing before a man who had given me a second chance, I couldn’t stop myself. I must have said “Thank you” a hundred times. Mr. Smith patted my shoulder, a rare smile on his face. “You’ve worked hard. This is what I can do for you. You owe me dinner. That’s enough.” I glanced at the bank notification on my phone, then back at him. Two years ago, I lost everything, but today, a stranger believed in me more than my family ever had. I knew this was my second chance, and this time, I wouldn’t waste it.

I left the woodworking shop with a determination I had never felt before. This time, I wasn’t rebuilding just for myself. I was doing it for the people who believed in me.

Reaching the Peak, Again

Jake, Emily, and I rented a small office in the city’s heart. It wasn’t fancy, just a simple room with three desks, an old whiteboard, and dreams far more significant than the space we worked in. We started again from nothing, but this time, I had experience. I had learned from failure. I understood the mistakes that led to my downfall and wouldn’t repeat them. We worked tirelessly, running projects from morning till night, reconnecting with old clients, chasing every new opportunity. Every day was a battle, but I never wavered. After 6 months, the first contracts started coming in. Clients trusted us for our services and how we worked with dedication and integrity. After a year, the company wasn’t just surviving, it was thriving. We cleared every debt, and I knew it was time to repay someone who had made all this possible.

I returned to the workshop on a late afternoon, the sky painted in hues of gold and orange. It was still the same place, and the small office behind the shop, but this time I was no longer the man who had walked in two years ago, empty-handed, lost, and uncertain. Mr. Smith was at his desk, his usual cup of coffee beside him. When he saw me step in, he looked up and gave me that familiar, knowing smile. “Peter, you’re not here to ask for your old job back, are you?” he teased, his deep voice warm.

I chuckled and pulled out a chair, sitting across from him. “No, I’m here to repay a debt.” I took out my phone and made a transaction right before him. Moments later, his phone vibrated with a bank notification. “I just transferred $100,000 to your account,” I said, meeting his gaze with gratitude. “The money you lent me back then. I never forgot, and I can’t hold on to it any longer.”

Mr. Smith studied me for a long moment before letting out a quiet laugh, his eyes filled with calm satisfaction. “I never doubted you’d pay me back,” he said, though his tone made it clear that the money had never really mattered to him. I reached into my bag and pulled out a folder, placing it in front of him. He picked it up and frowned. “What’s this?”

For the first time, I saw genuine surprise in his eyes. He looked up at me, his expression a mix of shock and something more profound, almost emotional. “Peter, you’re joking, right?” He shook his head. “I didn’t help you expecting this.”

Mr. Smith exhaled slowly, flipping through the documents. But he didn’t pick up the pen. After a long silence, he looked at me. “I won’t accept 5%,” he said calmly. “But I have one condition.” I frowned. “What condition?” He pushed the folder back toward me. “You can still keep this portion,” he said, “but instead of giving me the money, I want you to put it into a charity fund every month.”

I stared at him, unable to hide the emotion in my eyes. “Are you sure?” I asked quietly. He nodded, his gaze unwavering. “I’ve lived long enough to know that money isn’t everything. But I also know it can change lives in the right hands.” I tightened my grip on the folder, respecting the man before me. “All right,” I said, my voice filled with conviction. “Promise.”

I looked at him one last time before nodding. This time, I didn’t leave the workshop as a man who had lost everything. I left as a man who had found his path, and I knew this was only the beginning.

Peace and a New Future

Two months ago, I decided to buy a house. A spacious 200 square meter home, large enough to finally enjoy the fruits of my labor after years of struggle. For the first time, I bought something not out of responsibility, not to prove myself, but simply as a reward for me. As I signed the contract, I thought, maybe it’s time to start a family. I had never given it much thought before, but now, with a stable career and a warm home, the idea of building a real family didn’t seem so far-fetched.

I had believed that the day my parents asked me to pay rent to stay in their house was when we ended things. I was no longer their son; they were no longer my family. But I was wrong. Once again, they heard about my success, and once again, just as I told you at the beginning of this story, they came back. Not to check on me, not to congratulate me, but to demand a share of what I had built.

10 p.m. I arrived home. The house was blissfully quiet. They were gone. No more familiar faces filled with expectation, no more manipulative words, no more absurd demands. I stepped inside, locked the door behind me, and let my body sink into the couch, feeling lighter than ever. I was grateful I hadn’t let them in. If I had, I’d be sitting here now calculating how much it would cost to hire someone to clean up their mess. I turned on the lights and looked around. Everything was still exactly as I had left it: clean, organized, untouched. The thought of them stepping inside, disrupting everything and bringing chaos into my space, made me shudder.

Memories rushed back. Six years ago, in my old apartment, they used to visit. No calls, no asking if I was free. They would cook, eat, and sometimes even invite their friends over. And after every visit, I was the one left to clean up the mess: dirty dishes piled in the sink, leftover food on the table, spilled drinks on the floor, sometimes even dirty socks or random clothes tossed carelessly in the living room. I never complained. I never spoke up because I thought that was what family did. But they never respected my space. They never once asked if I was comfortable with it. I had put up with it for too long. It haunted me to this day. I glanced around my home once more: clean, orderly, peaceful. Just like my life now. I smiled. I had been right to say no.

Two days later, my phone rang at my desk on an ordinary morning. I glanced at the screen: “Aunt Anna.” I froze for a second. It had been years since I’d heard that name, 5 years to be exact, since I last saw her. I picked up the call, keeping my tone steady as if this were another conversation. “Hello, A…”