“You should be in school, not figuring out how to survive,” Frank said.
“Life doesn’t work out the way we want,” Zoe replied, her voice soft but firm.
For the next few hours, Frank sat silently, watching Zoe sketch in her notebook.
Her pencil moved with confidence, every stroke purposeful.
He hated to admit it, but her art was bold, creative, and alive. It was far better than anything he had ever painted.
The radio crackled to life, its monotone voice announcing the hurricane had passed. The storm was over.
Frank stood, his joints stiff, and gestured toward the stairs.
“Let’s go up,” he said. Once upstairs, he glanced at Zoe and handed her the signed documents without a word.
“You were right,” he said, his voice low. “I was a terrible husband.
A lousy father too. I can’t change any of that. But maybe I can help change someone’s future.”
Zoe stared at the papers for a moment, then slipped them into her backpack.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
Frank looked at her and nodded. “Don’t stop painting. You’ve got talent.”
Zoe slung the bag over her shoulder.
“Life decided otherwise,” she said, heading for the door.
“You can stay here,” Frank said suddenly.
Zoe froze. “What?”
“You can live here,” Frank said. “I can’t undo my mistakes, but I also can’t throw my own granddaughter out on the street.”
“Do you really want me to stay?” Zoe asked.
“Not exactly,” Frank admitted.
“But I think we might both learn something.”
Zoe smirked. “Fine. Thanks.
But I’m taking all your art supplies. I’m way better than you.”
She turned toward the basement. Frank shook his head.
“Stubborn and arrogant. You get that from me.”
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