His eyes find mine when he tilts to the side, a wrench in hand still attached to the pipe. “Why pay someone when you can fix it yourself?”

“Because then you wouldn’t have to fix it every few weeks.” I pull out a chair, the metal feet dragging through the barren spot in the flooring. The sound has been a part of my childhood, so neither of us bats an eye.

He tightens the seal and then lowers the wrench. “Turn on the water.”

We’ve had a few mishaps over the years fixing things ourselves, but the memories only reflect good times when thinking back. I turn on the faucet. No yelping is a good start.

He untucks himself from the awkward position under the sink and sits up. “That’s money in the bank.”

When he stands and dusts himself off, I ask, “Did you see the new building going up at the corner of Dobson and Main?”

The wrench clangs in the rusted toolbox when it’s dropped among the other tools. “I’m not an apartment kind of guy.”

“They look really nice. Great views of downtown. Someone else can fix the pipes if they break, and the sale of the house would be real money in the bank.” This is the only home I’ve known. This is the place where he and Liz . . . I still can’t bring myself to call the woman who gave birth to me mom. This is the house where they once lived together, loved each other, and brought me home from the hospital. I’d be kind of sad if he sold this place. Still, it would be worth it for the gain he’d get, money he’ll never have working twelve-to-fourteen-hour days in the garage.

Squatting, he packs up the toolbox and then stands with it in his hands. “She’s not much, but in a few years, she’ll be all mine once I pay her off. Then I never have to owe anyone for anything.”

“Other than taxes.”

“You know what I mean, pipsqueak.” He comes over and ruffles my hair. I could complain about the nickname or the hair like I did when I was a teen, but I don’t get these moments as often these days. Between work and school, I treasure our Sunday dinners. Time slows down when I’m at home, and I breathe a little easier. “There’s value in not owing anybody anything.”

I nod.

My dad raised me by himself since the day Liz walked out the same door I just entered. I was two when this gruff—six-one, ex-high school football player, heart of gold of a guy—took on the role of both parents, raising me with a strong work ethic, which is one of the reasons I got a full ride to college. But it’s his values that never waver.

He relied on one person in life, and she let him down, so he stood on his own after that with his chin held high, even when it meant sacrificing his own needs.