Chapter 5 - A New Foundation
David spent three hours inspecting every inch of our half of the duplex.
He checked the furnace, tested the new carbon-monoxide detectors, sealed a small draft around the basement door with weatherstripping, and even fixed a squeaky hinge on the pantry door that had bothered me for six months.
While he worked, the twins woke from their nap. Instead of crying or hiding from the stranger, Owen toddled over and handed David a plastic wrench from his toy box, while Miles sat on the rug and babbled happily as David demonstrated how his real metal wrench turned a bolt.
Lucy warmed up to him even faster. By the time I finished making afternoon snacks, Lucy was sitting on a kitchen stool explaining to David how she had pulled the red sled through the snow.
"I pulled it really hard," Lucy said, her small chest puffing out with pride. "Because mom told me to go straight to Mrs. Vega's."
David stopped eating his apple slice and looked at Lucy with profound respect. "That is about the bravest thing I’ve ever heard of anyone doing. You’re a hero, Lucy."
"I’m not a hero," she said seriously. "I was just being a good helper."
David looked up at me across the kitchen island, his dark eyes warm and understanding. "Colin would have been so proud of her. Of all of you."
The mention of Colin’s name didn’t sting the way it used to. It felt like a warm light passing through the room, acknowledging a part of our history without drowning us in the sorrow of it.
"Thank you, David," I said quietly, pouring him a cup of coffee. "For coming down, and for checking everything. You didn't have to do that."
"Family is family," he replied simply. "And to be honest, I needed the drive. Duluth has been quiet since my lease ended, and I’ve been thinking about moving back down toward the Twin Cities or Rochester anyway. Work is steady down here."
"Are you looking for a place?"
"Just crashing at a motel for a few days while I look around," he said. "Why? Do you know of any decent spots?"
Before I could answer, Mrs. Vega’s voice chimed in from the doorway. She had let herself in through the side entrance, holding a batch of freshly baked oatmeal cookies on a ceramic plate.
"The upstairs apartment on the east side of the building is vacant," Mrs. Vega announced, setting the plate on the counter. "Our landlord has been trying to find a quiet, responsible tenant for a month. And since you clearly know how to fix a squeaky pantry door and don't panic during a blizzard, you'd make a much better neighbor than the college kids who used to live there."
David blinked, surprised, then looked at me with an inquiring smile. "What do you think, Rebecca? Would you mind having your late husband's cousin living right above your heads?"
I looked at the cookies, then at David, and finally at my children laughing together on the living room rug. The idea didn't feel suffocating or intrusive. It felt safe. It felt like community.
"I think," I smiled, "that as long as you promise not to tell Marianne our schedule, you're more than welcome."
Within two weeks, David had signed a lease on the upstairs apartment.
Having him in the building changed the rhythm of our lives in the best possible ways. On Tuesday evenings, he brought down groceries and helped me prep dinner while we listened to the twins babble. On weekends, he took Lucy to the neighborhood park to practice riding her bicycle without training wheels.
He never tried to take Colin’s place. He never tried to parent my children or tell me how to run my household. He was simply a steady, reliable presence—a bridge between our past and a future that finally felt manageable.
Marianne, upon learning that David had moved into the duplex upstairs, was predictably furious. She called me once, her voice sharp with disbelief.
"You have my nephew living in your building? Are you trying to cut me out of the family entirely while keeping all of Colin's blood relatives close?"
"David is an adult, Marianne," I replied calmly, standing by the kitchen window watching him help Lucy plant sunflower seeds in our small backyard patch. "He chose to rent the apartment. He is allowed to live where he wants, and he is allowed to be part of our lives without your permission."
"You are poisoning his mind against me," she accused.
May you like
"No, Marianne. I’m just living my life. You should try it sometime."
I hung up the phone before she could answer. I blocked her number for thirty days—a boundary I set for my own peace of mind. For the first time in my life as a widow, I felt completely in control of my own story.
