For a moment, my mind refused to connect what I was seeing.

It was David.

He looked smaller somehow.

Older.

Time had pulled the confidence from his posture and carved deep lines into his face. His hair had thinned. His shoulders slumped.

But his eyes were the same.

“I need help,” he said.

No greeting.

No apology.

Just those words.

He told me his life had fallen apart.

Jobs lost.

Health failing.

His mother was gone. The house was gone.

He had nowhere else to go.

“I heard you’re doing well,” he added quietly.

I looked at him and felt something I did not expect.

Nothing.

No anger.

No satisfaction.

Just clarity.

I thought of the nights I held two crying babies alone.

The winters with barely enough heat.

The birthdays he missed.

The school events he never attended.

The years he chose not to know his daughters.

I thought of the woman I used to be.

And the woman I had become.

“My daughters are at school,” I said calmly. “They don’t know you’re here.”

He nodded.

Almost relieved.

He asked if he could stay.

Just for a while.

I told him no.