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…

It was so gross. He stopped short, eyeing Lance. Who’s this? Freya braced herself but Lance leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Hey Sigrid, I’m Lance. Tell me something, how do worms move without legs? Been a while since I cracked a science book. Sigrid’s face lit up, shyness evaporating.

Easy, they’ve got these tiny bristles, setae they’re called, and muscles that squeeze them along, like a squishy conveyor belt. He dropped his bag and darted to a shelf, yanking down a shoebox of treasures, circuit scraps, a magnifying glass, a dog-eared bug guide. For the next forty minutes he chattered non-stop, showing Lance a battery-powered fan he’d rigged and a chart of constellations he’d drawn.

Lance listened, nodding, asking questions. What’s that wire do? How’d you figure that out? His smile growing with every answer. Freya watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, stunned.

She’d expected awkward silences or Sigrid retreating to his room. Not this. This easy, buzzing connection.

Eleanor sidled up beside her, peeling apples for a pie, her silence louder than words. What? Freya whispered, catching her grandmother’s gleam. Why are you grinning like that? Eleanor sliced an apple with a deft flick, her voice low.

Just thinking you deserve this is all. After everything. Oh, and your folks scraping by.

A man like that don’t come along every day. Freya frowned, glancing back at Lance, laughing as Sigrid waved a bent paperclip. I don’t know, Grandma.

He’s… nice, sure. But I still don’t get why he’s here. What’s he want? Sometimes, Eleanor said, dropping apple slices into a bowl.

It ain’t about what he wants. Maybe it’s about what you’ve earned. She nudged Freya’s shoulder.

Give it a chance, huh? Freya didn’t answer, her eyes on Lance and Sigrid, two heads bent over a tangle of wires, the room warm with their voices. For the first time in years, she wondered if her walls might be keeping out more than just hurt. Six months later, spring bloomed wild across Springfield.

Lance dropped another bombshell. They were on the veranda at Eleanor’s, the air sweet with lilacs, Sigrid inside tinkering with a robotics kit. Lance had been quieter than usual, fidgeting with his coffee mug, until he set it down and took Freya’s hand.

Her heart thudded. She knew that look by now, the one that meant he was about to upend her world again. Freya, he said, voice low but sure.

I want to marry you. Spend the rest of my life with you, Sigrid. All of it.

What do you say? She stared at him, the words ricocheting in her skull. Marriage? Her? The diner girl with a kid and a coffee can dream? Lance was a whirlwind she’d never dared imagine. Steady, kind, a man who laughed at her sharp edges and stuck around anyway.

Sometimes, lying awake beside him, she’d pinch herself, half convinced he was a mirage. But there he was, real as the calluses on his hands, blue eyes searching hers. You’re serious, she whispered, more to herself than him.

Dead serious, he said, squeezing her fingers. You in? Her throat tightened, a yes trembling on her lips, but years of caution held it back. Let me think on it, she managed, and he nodded, unfazed, like he’d wait as long as she needed.

If that wasn’t enough to rattle her, what came next sealed the deal. They’d talked about her diner job before. Lance nudging her to quit, join his real estate firm, help with admin stuff.

You’d be great at it, he’d said one night over takeout. But she’d dug in her heels. I like rosies.

It’s mine. Been my lifeline. Plus, I’ve got Seagrid’s college fund to build.

Lance hadn’t pushed, just let it drop with a shrug. She thought that was that. Then, a week after the proposal, he showed up at the house with a thick envelope and a grin that wouldn’t quit.

Eleanor was there, peeling carrots for stew. Seagrid was sprawled on the rug, sketching gears. Lance plopped the envelope on the kitchen table.

Go on, open it. Freya frowned, sliding out a stack of papers. Her eyes skimmed the letterhead, Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, and snagged on Seagrid Jensen, full tuition scholarship, pre-med programme.

Her breath caught. What? What is this? His spot’s locked in, Lance said, leaning back in his chair, still grinning. Paid up.

Four years. Med school. Kids set.

Freya’s head snapped up. You what? Seagrid perked up from the floor, eyes wide, and Eleanor dropped her peeler with a clatter. Been working on it for months, Lance said, laughing now.

Connections from the firm. Called in a favour. He’s in, Freya.

Starts in. Oh, nine years or so when he’s ready. Stop laughing, she snapped, but her voice cracked, tears pricking her eyes.

Lance, this is… How did you… She bolted to her room, grabbed the coffee can from under the bed, Seagrid’s future, half full of crumpled bills, and dumped it on the table. Take it then. You paid for this, not me.

Lance pushed the pile back, his laugh softening. That’s yours. I did this because I wanted to, not for a refund.

Freya stared at the money, then at him. Her chest heaving. Seagrid piped up, does this mean I’m going to be a doctor? And Eleanor cackled, clapping her hands…