He almost stopped.
He didn't know why he wanted to.
So he kept driving.
That afternoon, he called his brother Mike in California.
Mike was four years older, successful, married, organized, and living the kind of life Adrian suspected came with calendars that synchronized automatically.
Mike listened while Adrian described the house.
The leak.
The broken porch.
The empty rooms.
Then the letter.
“Sixty thousand?”
“Yeah.”
“Did Dad ever mention a loan?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“Mike, I didn't even know there was debt.”
A long silence followed.
Their father had not been easy.
Proud.
Private.
More comfortable repairing a neighbor's lawn mower than asking anyone for help.
But fraud felt like a dramatic explanation because ordinary explanations were worse.
Maybe their father had needed money and lied.
Maybe medical bills.
Maybe something they did not know.
Mike said:
“Talk to a lawyer.”
“With what money?”
“Talk first.”
Adrian rubbed his forehead.
“You know anybody there?”
“No.”
Then he remembered Ivy.
Not a lawyer.
But local.
“I’ll figure it out.”
He hung up.
An hour later, Noah fell from the porch railing.
The sound was mostly branches.
Then one sharp cry.
Adrian ran outside.
Noah sat inside a rhododendron bush looking offended by gravity. A scrape marked one elbow, another his cheek.
“I told you not to lean on that railing.”
“I wasn't leaning.”
“What were you doing?”
“Walking.”
“Why were you walking on a railing?”
“I was being a tightrope.”
Adrian's voice sharpened.
“You could have broken your arm.”
“But I didn't.”
“That isn't the point.”
Noah's face closed.
Adrian saw it instantly.
The expression children had when fear disguised as parental anger landed only as anger.
He shut his eyes.
Counted.
Opened them.
“I'm sorry.”
Noah rubbed his elbow.
“You used the disappointed voice.”
Adrian sighed.
“That's worse.”
“Yeah.”
After cleaning the scrape, Adrian went outside.
The railing bracket had rusted through.
One section had pulled half free from the post.
He put both hands on his hips.
Roof leak.
Broken railing.
Sixty thousand dollars.
No work.
Custody arrangement still unofficial enough to terrify him.
For the first time, he thought the sentence fully.
I can't do this.
Not house.
Not debt.
Not fatherhood.
None of it.
Maybe Megan had been right.
Maybe Noah would be safer with her once she was ready.
A horn sounded softly across the street.
Ivy came toward him carrying a toolbox and a coil of rope.
She had changed into jeans and an old flannel shirt marked with paint.
“I heard the kid.”
“He’s fine.”
“I figured. You would've called an ambulance otherwise.”
She climbed the steps.
Shook the railing.
“That's coming off.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know.”
Adrian looked at her.