That became our routine, but Arthur didn’t get nicer—not really.
About five years in, something shifted.
I knocked like always, but that day, Arthur didn’t shut the door.
“Are you coming in or not?” he called from inside.
I stepped in slowly.
The house was clean.
And the walls stopped me cold—they were covered in photos.
Kids at birthdays. School portraits. Holidays. Smiles frozen in time.
“Your family?” I asked. Familysupport groups
Arthur stood by the window, staring out.
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