For 25 years, Robert built walls around his heart—thick, silent barriers forged from pride and pain. His only son, Philip, had left home to marry someone Robert disapproved of, and from that day forward, they barely spoke. Lonely and bitter, Robert lived out his years in a quiet house that once echoed with laughter but now knew only the hum of the television and the creak of old floorboards. Then one rainy afternoon, a knock came at his door. A young man named Oliver stood there with a backpack and a hopeful smile, answering Robert’s ad for a tenant. Against his instincts, Robert rented out the spare room.Oliver was the opposite of Robert in every way—warm, talkative,

and full of small kindnesses. He cooked dinner most nights, told lively stories about places he’d traveled, and gently brought light back into the old house. Despite Robert’s gruff exterior, something in him began to shift. The silence became conversation. The meals became shared moments. The walls began to crack. But one evening, everything unraveled. Robert stumbled across a letter tucked into Oliver’s bag—a letter revealing the truth: Oliver wasn’t just a tenant. He was Robert’s grandson. And worse, he’d been sent by Philip, in hopes of mending the broken bond. Robert’s fury was immediate. He felt tricked, betrayed. He yelled, said things he couldn’t take back,