Ethan never knocked on our door again.
Every day, he would pass by on the other side of the street. If he saw my father, he would stop and greet him.
When my mother was carrying something heavy, he would step forward to help, carry it to the door, then leave.
He had learned not to turn a favor into an excuse to see me.
Once, I ran into him downstairs.
He was carrying a brand-new toolbox and asked whether I had fixed the window screen.
The moment the words left his mouth, he stopped himself.
"Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
I watched him walk around me and head upstairs.
Suddenly, I remembered that the Ethan I used to know would never have done that.
Back then, he would have walked straight inside, taken the tools out of my hands, and teased me for insisting I could manage on my o
