Dad raised an eyebrow.
“What is this?”
“Property taxes for the year.”
He immediately pushed it back.
“Absolutely not.”
I laughed.
“Dad.”
“No.”
“It’s my house.”
He pointed at me.
“And we’re your parents.”
Mom smiled.
“Looks like neither side is giving up.”
Dad leaned back in his chair.
“Good.”
I looked at the ocean.
The waves rolled toward the shore, steady and patient.
For years, I had believed protecting my parents meant giving them money, buying them things, and solving every problem before they knew it existed.
But I finally understood something.
Sometimes protection wasn’t about standing in front of someone.
Sometimes it was about giving them a place nobody could take away.
A place where they could grow old without fear.
A place where their door stayed locked against people who thought kindness meant weakness.
Dad reached over and squeezed my hand.
