I was big when I was a child. How did you do it?" "You know me," I say, chuckling. He looks at me in a questioning way, and I decide to take a stab. "Bruce Willis?" He smiles. "I see you got your sense of humor back." "Some." "Okay," he says. "So, if my memory serves me right, when you were an infant, the doctors told your parents that you would die. But you didn't, and as a result, I am still alive. I am grateful for that." He chuckles again. "For a minute there, I thought I would not live past my twenty-third birthday." I smile. He continues. "And so, it is no exaggeration to say that I'm just about the luckiest dude in the world." "I don't know about that. From what I've seen of you lately, you are a little less than thrilled." He looks a little surprised. "It's all right," I say. "I mean, you are going to need some rest, and you still have a ton of work to do." He smiles. "You think I'm lazy?" "In a manner of speaking." He laughs again. "I guess I can see that." "Well, if you're not busy," I say, "could you tell me how long you've been working on this place?" "For more than twenty years," he says. "When my dad moved here, he needed help. I used to visit my grandparents when they were alive. I'd always take things apart, fix the problems, and then put it all back together. For my dad's house, I built the whole shell, and since he couldn't get to it anymore, I did the plumbing, wiring, and even the finishes. I went through college, got a degree, and worked a few years at a real estate company until my dad died. Then I just stuck around, doing what I do." "Did your dad have any idea how much you could fix things up?" "He trusted me, I guess." He smiles. "When I was young, I was the kid everyone turned to for help. My grandpa was a good handyman and my mom is quite an artist. But my dad was the best. He used to say, 'What people need is for other people to step in.' And that's what I always tried to do." "So you've lived here your entire life?" I ask. "Yes." "And what about your family? Do you have siblings?" He shakes his head. "I've never wanted one. My parents were married when they had me, and my dad had no interest in any woman except my mom. As far as I know, he never touched another woman after my mom died." "Wow. It must have been tough growing up here with no friends," I say. "Not for me." He laughs. "I had all the friends I needed. I had my mom and dad and my grandpa." "Do you have any siblings?" He shakes his head. "Only child." "Did you always know you were gay?" "Are you sure you want to do this?" "I'm sure," I say. "Go on. Tell me." He shrugs. "Well, I always knew I was gay. And it just wasn't something my parents talked about." "Does your dad know you're gay?" He shakes his head. "Probably not." I frown. "I can see why. Why don't you think he's proud of you?" "He is," he says. "At least, he tries to be." "He never treated you badly?" He shakes his head. "He did my best to make me feel like he loved me." "You never felt the need to talk to him about this?" "I thought about it, but I didn't really know how to. And honestly, I don't think he would have understood. That's just the kind of man he was. You never know where the line is, with him or anyone else. He was quiet, and I guess that's the way he tried to keep everyone from leaving him." "And you didn't ever want to be like your dad?" "It's not that. He wasn't mean or anything. He just loved to cook, and that was his way of doing that." I shrug. "Okay. Well, it sounds like you and your family are closer to being your best friends than your brothers." "Yes," he says, smiling. "I guess we were." "You must have felt lonely at times." "It was hard sometimes," he says. "But that was when I went back to the old farmhouse." "The one you inherited? The one my father fixed up?" He nods. "I couldn't stay in my mom's house, not after she died." "That's a pretty strong statement. Did your dad say why?" "Not really," he says. "I think he was just being a good son. But the place was too big for me." "Did he get rid of all your things?" "He gave them away. He said it was easier that way." He smiles. "I think his mind was made up. He had no use for them, but I did." "And he never asked you where you'd be?" He shakes his head. "I never told him I'd be here." "Oh." "It was a long time ago," he says. "He'd been gone more than a year by then, and I didn't want to hurt him." He pauses. "I never hurt him." I nod. "Anyway, he was the only one I ever told, and I kept it quiet from everyone else. The only person I told was my grandpa." "I don't see a phone over there," I say. "There's one in the kitchen," he says. "I bet my father knew you were gay." "How?" "Well, like I said, he was a father who treated his son with kindness and respect." He shrugs. "No reason to mention it." "He had good intentions," I say. "He thought he was showing you a kindness by telling your grandpa." "That's a pretty big leap," he says. "I've had good reasons," I say, feeling the familiar anger that still clings to me. "He left me. He left me because I was gay." "You were a good kid," he says. "It doesn't sound like he should have been ashamed." "I didn't know how to explain it to him," I say. "I still don't." He nods. "But when he had you there, he never said anything about him having to do it?" "No." He takes his time. "My mom and grandpa were both very different people, and I knew I couldn't share it with them. I told my grandpa, but he understood how it was. He never wanted to talk about it. He gave me enough answers and enough space that I could cope." "Did he ever think he'd lose you?" "No," he says. "He knew I'd go and do what I wanted to do." "You must have been so scared." He takes a sip of his coffee. "I was nervous, all right. But I had you. And then we made this deal that we would take this house together and we would fix it. If we hadn't done that, we would have been homeless." "No," I say. "You wouldn't have been homeless. You would have taken that one-bedroom apartment in town." He shrugs. "Same thing." "But you could have called my father. Maybe he would have found you a job." "He wouldn't have done that. He had said, 'I want you gone.' And he meant it." I look at him, thinking about all the things he's gone through in his life. "You're not as old as I thought you were." "Maybe. Not much older than you." "Why didn't you get an apartment?" I ask. "You don't want to live with a landlord." He shakes his head. "I don't know if I'm really gay or not." I frown. "What do you mean?" "I don't know how I feel about other people. I think that's my problem." He smiles. "When I was younger, I had crushes on girls a lot. But then I fell in love with a woman. I thought that's what love is." "Did your girlfriend tell you that?" "We broke up," he says. "There's never a reason. She just wanted to be free to do what she wanted. She got to go off and follow her dreams, and it didn't matter to her that