Chapter 13
The foundation grew.
We opened our first free legal clinic in Austin. Then a second. Then a third.
Hundreds of people came.
Widows with stacks of unopened mail. Adult children who couldn't face probate. People who had been taken advantage of by the one person they trusted.
I told my story at every clinic.
Not for sympathy.
For warning.
"Read everything. Sign nothing without a lawyer you trust. And if your husband sends you a Venmo request for $1.94, run."
They laughed. But they got it.
I was thirty-two. I was confident. I was strong.
And I was happy.
One day, a contractor came to the house.
I was remodeling the workshop into a second clinic office.
His name was Sam. Calloused hands. Warm laugh. A tool belt that looked like it belonged there.
He looked at the workshop.
"Your dad was a refrigeration guy?"
"How did you know?"
"These tools. Organized by size. Only a tradesman does that. And this workbench—built by someone who knew what he was doing."
I smiled.
"That was my dad."
Sam spent three weeks on the workshop.
We talked. A lot.
He told me about his own divorce. Amicable. No drama. He had a daughter who lived with him half the time.
I told him about Nolan. About the trial. About $1.94.
He listened. He didn't interrupt. He didn't try to fix it.
When the workshop was done, he handed me the keys.
"No charge," he said.
"What? No. I'm paying you."
"Consider it a donation to the Arthur Hayes Foundation. My mom got taken by a scam after my dad died. If your foundation existed then, it would have helped her."
I stared at him.
"Then I'll accept. With gratitude."
He smiled.
"Can I take you to dinner? To celebrate the new office?"
I almost said no.
Then I looked at his hands. Calloused. Honest.
May you like
I looked at his eyes. Kind. Warm.
"Yes," I said. "I'd like that."
