Donald looked up—and his breath caught in his throat.

They weren’t at a nursing home. They were parked in front of a quiet, modest one-story house with a white porch swing and flower beds blooming along the walkway. There was a ramp instead of stairs leading to the front door, and a wooden sign on the mailbox that read: *Donald’s Place.*

Confused, Donald turned to Peter. “What is this?”

Peter smiled, eyes a little misty. “Your new home, Dad. I bought it last week.”

“What? But I said I wanted a nursing home. I don’t want to be a burden—”

“You’re not a burden. You’re my father. You raised me, taught me how to ride a bike, stayed up with me when I was sick. I couldn’t just leave you somewhere unfamiliar.”

Donald blinked rapidly. “But your family—”

“They helped pick the curtains. And the kids are dying to have you over for dinners and weekend movie nights.”

Donald clutched the paperwork in his hands, now useless.

Peter opened the door. “Come see your new garden. You always said you missed having one.”

Donald stepped out slowly, his heart aching—but this time, not from sadness.

From love.