Page 4 of When Love Comes Home

Knowing perfectly well that he won’t relent, I brace myself for another pitch. “Katherine,” he begins. “Adam is part of the family. You’ve known him all your life. If you don’t feel comfortable letting him stay with you, then you can come home. Your room is just how you left it.”

I bite my tongue and let him continue. “Katherine, are you still there?”

“Yes, Daddy, I’m listening,” I assure him.

“Sweetheart,” he begins, “there's one more thing.”

I inhale sharply, bracing myself for whatever's coming next.

"I never told you this," he continues, his words measured, "because I knew you wouldn’t have agreed to live there, but Adam owns the house. He’s your landlord.”

For a moment, I consider hanging up on him again, but instead, I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. I can feel the panic rising, and I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose with my fingers, willing myself to keep it together.

I love this house. My swing. My quiet, undisturbed existence. I refuse to let Adam Morgan drive me out of it.

“Okay, Daddy,” I say, the words coming out more to end the conversation than out of agreement or submission. “Give me his number. I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”

Like hell I will.

“Katherine,” he says gently, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “I’m texting you his number, but I think it would be best if you two spoke in person. Adam is on his way, and he should be there soon.”

I say goodbye to my dad, and as I end the call, I realize my hands are shaking, and my head is splitting.

Am I ready to face him? It’s not that I’m intimidated by him—I just can’t stand him. I don’t want to see him. The day he left for college was one of the happiest days of my life. And honestly, our last interaction should’ve been enough to keep him away for good. The fact that our paths haven’t crossed in all these years, even with his frequent visits to my family, has been an unexpected blessing—one I consider a small miracle, sent by the Lord Himself.

Dad said he'd be here soon. But how soon is soon? I rush to the bathroom, checking myself in the mirror. I fluff my hair, straighten my T-shirt. Should I change? I pull on my college sweatshirt, the warmth and familiarity easing my frayed nerves. A touch of blush, a swipe of tinted lip-gloss. Then it hits me—I'm primping for a man I care nothing about. I quickly blot off the lip-gloss.

Let’s see who cries “uncle” first, Mr. Morgan. I can guarantee it won’t be me. Come hell or high water, I won’t be the one to budge. Crossing my arms, I sit on the sofa and wait for the battle ahead.

Chapter 3

Adam

Iwasonlytwowhen my parents were killed in a car accident. After being passed from one family member to another—each of them deciding they didn’t want me—I spent the next twelve years in foster care. They say the first five years of a child’s life are the most formative. I wonder what says about me, given that mine were marked by hardship, rejection, disappointment, and heartbreak.

Being back in Cold Spring, this time for good, feels surreal. It’s where my numerous stints in foster care finally ended. I was fourteen when I was placed with what would be my last foster family—a couple in their late thirties with a son in college. Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin. He was a doctor, often working long hours, so I rarely saw him. His wife, though, was kind, present, and eager to provide a stable home for a kid in need. Their son, Aaron, is now one of my best friends.

When Katie told me I had latched onto her family, she wasn’t wrong. And I’ll never apologize for it. Meeting Jon Linder was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Even now, driving past the high school, I feel the pull of nostalgia—moments that will live in my memory forever.

I was the new kid in school, eager to play football, but I knew my grades needed to improve or that dream would be out of reach. So, I approached my teacher for help.

I was so nervous walking to Mr. Linder's classroom that day. After knocking on the door and hearing his deep voice say, "Come in," I slowly pushed it open.

"Mr. Linder," I began, my voice unsteady. "Hi, um, I tried out for the team last week. Do you remember me?"

“Of course,” he said with a nod. “You’re in my algebra class.”

“Yeah, about that,” I said, swallowing my nerves. “I’m completely lost. I’ve been to so many schools, I’m lucky I haven’t flunked a grade... yet.”

“Call me Coach,” he said with a friendly smile. “Well, if you’re willing to put in the time and effort, we can get you back on track academically.”

I nodded, feeling a rush of determination and uncertainty. “As long as I can stay with my current foster family, I’ll give it my all, Coach. I promise.”

After talking to my foster mom on the phone, Jon and I put together a schedule. We’d meet during lunch and after school twice a week for tutoring. With football practice most afternoons, those after-school sessions turned into evening ones. Most nights, I ended up having dinner with Jon and his family.

Sharon always greeted me with a warm smile, making me feel at home. They were amazing people. They still are. I witnessed the devotion and love they had for each other—and for their three daughters. Sharon would slip her hand into Jon’s as they passed in the hallway, a soft touch like a secret. He’d kiss the top of her head without breaking stride. At dinner, the girls would fight over who got to sit on his lap, and Sharon just smiled, eyes crinkling with joy. It wasn’t loud or showy—their love—it was just… everywhere.

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