Dad struggled to find words.

“There was no aggression, no entitlement, just exhaustion and hope that someone might see him as a person.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“He has a wedding ring.” Dad held up his hand, still wearing it, even though it’s probably worth money he desperately needs. “That tells me he loved someone, that he had a life before this.”

Mom’s expression shifted, still uncertain but listening.

“And when I opened the door, he stepped back, gave me space, didn’t try to push in, didn’t pressure. He was ready to walk away if I said no.”

“So why didn’t you say no?” I asked. It came out more challenging than I intended.

Dad looked at me. “Because I know what it’s like to be invisible.”

“Lauren, what?”

“I grew up poor. Really poor. We didn’t have much. And people looked through me, like I wasn’t there, like I didn’t matter.”