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“You looked at six buildings.”

“I did my due diligence.” He says it like it’s obvious, which for Richard it apparently is. “I wasn’t going to put my daughter and my grandchildren somewhere I hadn’t personally vetted.”

I look at the photos — clean modern lines, a lobby with actual security presence, the specific quality of a building built recently enough that nothing’s worn down yet. “This looks expensive.”

“It is.” He doesn’t flinch from that. “I want to walk you through something before you react to the next part, because I know exactly the kind of reaction you’re about to have, and I’d like you to actually hear the reasoning first.”

“Okay.”

“I specifically looked for a ground-floor unit.” He taps the screen, pulling up a floor plan. “Two bedrooms, but this is important — the ground-floor units in this particular building are larger than the upper-level ones. Same price point, more square footage, because most people want the view from higher up and the developer priced it that way. I don’t care about the view. I care about you and Margo not having to carry two infants and a stroller up and down stairs every single day for the first year of their lives.”

I sit with that for a second. It hadn’t even occurred to me — the stairs, the logistics of it, the specific practical weight of caring for two newborns in a space that isn’t built for exactly that. Richard thought about it before I did.

“There’s a communal courtyard,” he continues. “Barbecue area, a pool, shared space for residents. Not extravagant, but pleasant. Somewhere you can actually build a life instead of just surviving in an apartment.”

“Richard —”

“I’ve already put down the security deposit.” He says it plainly, cutting off whatever protest I was gathering. “First year’s rent is paid in full. You and Margo don’t need to think about that part at all. I want you both focused on school, on the babies, on each other. Not on rent.”

I don’t say anything for a moment. I’m doing the calculations automatically, the way I do with everything — what this actually costs, what I’d need to earn to pay it back, how long that would take stacked on top of the Tab I’m already carrying.

“I’ll pay you back,” I say, finally. “Once I’m drafted, once there’s actual money coming in — I want you to know I’m not expecting this for free.”

Richard’s face does something I don’t expect. Not offense, exactly, but close to it — a specific firmness settling into his expression that reminds me, for a second, of Margo when she’s decided something isn’t up for negotiation.

“Don’t,” he says. “I mean that, Theo. I would be offended if you tried.”

“I don’t want to owe you something I can’t repay.”

“You wouldn’t be owing me anything. This isn’t a loan. It’s not a transaction.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, and for a second the litigator drops away entirely, just a father talking. “I’ve spent my whole life measuring things — deals, settlements, who owes what to whom. I know exactly what a transactional gift looks like, and I know exactly what it costs a person to receive one. I am not doing that to you. This is not a string. This is not something I’m going to bring up in five years when I need something from you. This is just what a father does when he has the means to make his daughter’s life easier and chooses to use them.”

I think about Lucas — the equipment, the birthday gifts that always came with an unspoken debt attached, the specific exhausting calculation of never being able to simply receive something without weighing the cost. Richard’s watching me, patient, letting me work through it.

“That’s not how I’ve ever experienced generosity,” I admit. “Not from my own family.”

“I know.” His voice gentles. “I’ve heard some of that, from Margo, from what I saw in Charleston. I’m not your father, Theo. I’m not going to pretend to replace him. But I can show you a different version of what this is supposed to look like. Let me do that.”

I feel something in my chest loosen, slow and unfamiliar. “Thank you,” I say. “Genuinely.”

“You’re welcome.” He sits back, some of the weight lifting from the moment. “Now. Go get your girlfriend. I believe she’d like to see her new home.”

Margo cries the second she walks in.

Not composed, not the managed version — full, unguarded tears, standing in the doorway of the ground-floor unit with her hand pressed over her mouth, taking in the space before either of us says a word.

It’s better than the photos. Open floor plan, kitchen flowing into a living room with actual natural light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows along the back wall, the specific brightness of a space designed by someone who understood that light matters more than most people think. The kitchen itself is fully finished — granite counters, stainless appliances still bearing the faint plastic film of never having been used, an island big enough for actual meals instead of just quick counter dinners. Two bedrooms down a short hallway. One clearly meant to be the nursery, big enough for two cribs with room to spare, a window that looks out onto the courtyard instead of a parking lot, the exact kind of soft afternoon light that makes a room feel safe before anyone’s even decorated it. The second bedroom’s smaller but still generous, room for an office or guest space, whatever we end up needing it for — a place for my desk and the Cintiq, maybe, somewhere I could keep working on the game assignment or whatever comes after it.

There’s a full bathroom off the hallway and a half-bath near the entry, both finished in the same clean modern style as everything else, and a laundry closet tucked discreetly beside the kitchen that means we’ll never have to haul anything to a shared machine in a basement somewhere. It’s a real home. Not a dorm room, not a house shared with three other guys, not anything either of us has ever actually lived in before — a place built for exactly the life we’re about to have.

“Theo.” Margo turns in a slow circle in the middle of the living room, taking it all in one more time like she’s trying to memorize it. “This is — I can’t believe this is real.”

“Ground floor,” I tell her, watching her reaction. “Your dad specifically wanted it that way. No stairs, once the babies come.”

Something in her face crumples further, the specific overwhelmed happiness of realizing exactly how much thought went into something you didn’t know to ask for. “He thought about the stairs.”

“He thought about everything. Six buildings before he picked this one.”

We walk through it together — the kitchen, what will hopefully be the nursery, the second bedroom, out through sliding doors to a small patio that opens onto the shared courtyard, where I can already see the pool glinting blue in the afternoon sun, a few residents out grilling at the communal barbecue stations set along the far wall, kids’ laughter drifting over from somewhere near the shallow end. It’s the specific kind of ordinary domestic scene I never let myself imagine having, back when my whole life was organized around the Tab and getting drafted and surviving one season at a time.