A distinguished older man stood on the porch, wearing a crisp gray suit and holding a leather briefcase. He had kind eyes and silver hair combed neatly to the side.
“Mr. Ethan?” the man asked, his smile gentle.
“Yes?” Ethan’s voice came out hoarse with worry.“My name is Charles. I’m an attorney. May I come in? I have something very important to discuss with you.”
Ethan was scared because lawyers never brought good news.Had he done something wrong? Was someone suing him?
He stepped aside, letting the man enter, his mind racing through every possible disaster.
Charles sat at the small kitchen table, glancing around the modest apartment with its peeling wallpaper and second-hand furniture. Nina peeked around the corner from the hallway, curious. Ruby held Sam’s hand near the bedroom door.
“It’s okay, kids,” Ethan said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Go play for a bit.”
They disappeared reluctantly. Charles set his briefcase on the table, opened it with two soft clicks, and pulled out a photograph.
He slid it across the table toward Ethan.
It was a picture of Ethan in the park, placing a stack of blankets on a bench in the early morning light.
Ethan’s mouth went dry. His mind spun. Was helping homeless people illegal? Had he been reported for littering? For trespassing?
“Ethan,” Charles said softly, “please don’t be alarmed. You’re not in trouble. Quite the opposite, actually.”
Ethan stared at him with wide eyes.
Charles leaned forward, his expression warm and serious. “I think you deserve to know why I’m here.”
Ethan gripped the edge of the table as his heart pounded against his chest.
His mind conjured the worst possible scenarios as Charles smiled at him.
Charles folded his hands calmly and began to speak.
“The elderly homeless man you’ve been helping in the park, the one with the frostbitten fingers, his name was Harold. He was my father.”
Ethan blinked, trying to process the words.
“My father wasn’t always homeless,” Charles continued, his voice thick with emotion. “He was a successful philanthropist who donated millions to shelters, hospitals, and schools. But five years ago, his live-in caretaker betrayed him. She stole his money, his identification, his medical records, everything. She left him with nothing, and because he had early-stage dementia, he couldn’t prove who he was. The system failed him. He ended up on the streets with no way to get help.”
Ethan felt his throat tighten. He thought of the old man’s kind eyes, the way he always nodded gratefully when Ethan left the blankets.
“My family searched for him for years,” Charles said quietly. “We hired investigators, filed police reports, and put up flyers. We never stopped looking. Then, three weeks ago, the police finally found him. He’d collapsed in the park, and someone called an ambulance. They were able to identify him through old dental records.”
Tears welled in Charles’s eyes. “But by the time we got to the hospital, it was too late. He passed away the next day.”
Ethan’s chest ached. “I’m so sorry.”
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