Freya got pregnant young, and her parents threw her out of the house. Fifteen years later, they showed up to see their daughter and grandson. What they saw left them staggered…

Lance leaned back, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He was forty-something, she guessed, lines etched around his eyes that said he’d seen a few rounds. Well, damn, he said, chuckling softly.

I’ve never been brushed off so elegantly before. Usually women trip over themselves to snag me. Money, charm, whatever.

But you? He shook his head, almost impressed. You’re a different breed, Freya. She narrowed her eyes, not sure if he was mocking her.

Yeah, well, I’ve got my priorities straight. So what’s this about? Why me? He sipped the coffee she’d poured, black, no sugar, and set the mug down with a clink. Honest? You threw me off? That jacket stunt? The way you lit into me yesterday? Nobody’s talked to me like that in years.

Made me think twice about the diner, about you. I’m not here to mess with your life. Just… wanted to know you.

Freya studied him, searching for the catch. The diner’s fluorescent glow caught the grey in his hair, the faint scar on his knuckle. He didn’t flinch under her stare.

Okay, she said, finally sitting back. But this, she waved a hand between them, stays simple. Burger, fries, done.

No funny business. Fair deal, Lance said, raising his mug like a toast. Simple it is.

Rosie dropped off their plates, greasy burgers, crinkle fries, and they ate, the tension easing into something quieter. Freya didn’t trust him, not yet, but the diner’s familiar hum and Lance’s easy laugh chipped at her walls just a little. Over the next few months, that first diner dinner turned out to be just the beginning.

Lance kept showing up, once a week, then twice, each time with something small but deliberate. A bouquet of daisies from the farmer’s market, tickets to a matinee at the old theatre downtown, even a suggestion to catch the county fair’s fireworks. Freya’s walls, built high and thick after years of scars, started to crack.

She’d catch herself smiling at his dry jokes or lingering over coffee longer than she meant to. But trust? That was still a tangle. Why her? Why now? Lance was a puzzle, too polished, too persistent, and she couldn’t shake the itch that there was more to his game.

Then, one crisp October evening, leaves crunching underfoot, he threw her a curveball. They were finishing burgers at Rosie’s, the jukebox miraculously wheezing out a Patsy Cline tune, when he set his fork down and looked at her square. Freya, he said, voice steady, I’d like to meet your son and your grandma too, if that’s okay.

She froze, ketchup smudging her fingers. Meet them. Her mind raced, Sigrid, Eleanor, her messy, sacred little world.

That’s… I mean, why? Lance shrugged, a faint smile tugging his lips. Because they’re your people. I’ve been hanging around you for months, feels right to know who matters most.

It blindsided her. Fifteen years of keeping men at arm’s length and here was Lance, wading into her life like it was no big deal. She mumbled a wary, okay, half expecting to regret it.

The meeting happened that Saturday at Eleanor’s. Freya fussed all morning, vacuuming the sagging couch, wiping down the kitchen counter twice, her stomach in knots. Lance arrived at three, no suit this time, just jeans and a flannel shirt, a paper bag of fresh apples from a roadside stand in his hand.

Thought these might go with dinner, he said, handing them to Freya with a grin. Eleanor took to him like a moth to a flame. She sat him down in the living room, her quilted robe swishing as she launched into a ramble.

Freya’s always been a good girl, you know, strong as they come. Raised that boy of hers all on her own, never complained once. Worked her tail off at that diner.

Grandma, Freya cut in from the doorway, cheeks flaming, he doesn’t need my life story. Lance chuckled, nodding at Eleanor. Oh, I’ve figured that much out already, ma’am.

She’s tough, I’ve seen it. Eleanor beamed, patting his arm. Good, you hold on to that.

Then the front door banged open and Sigrid burst in, backpack swinging, his sneakers caked with playground dirt. Mum, I’m home. We dissected a worm today…