When Brian’s father slammed the door, the sound echoed through the suburban twilight like a judge’s gavel. At 20, he stood on the porch with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his throat tight with the realization that “out” meant out---no warnings, no second chances. The August heat clung to his neck as he walked, not to a friend’s couch, but to the only relatives who’d ever answered his calls: his grandmother Eleanor and her younger sister, Maeve.

The sisters’ bungalow sat at the end of a maple-lined street, its porch light a beacon. Eleanor answered the door in a floral housedress, her silver bob catching the lamplight. “Brian,” she said, voice fraying at the edges, as if she’d rehearsed this moment in her head a hundred times. Maeve appeared behind her, her sharp green eyes narrowing at his swollen cheek. “We’ve been waiting,” she said, holding the door wider.

They settled him into the guest room---a space frozen in 1990s femininity, with lace curtains and a rosewood vanity---but Brian didn’t mention the ruffled bedspread or the porcelain figurines. That first night, Eleanor pressed a cool hand to his bruised cheek and promised, “We’ll fix this. Properly.” Maeve, ever pragmatic, added, “You’ll want for nothing here,” while sliding a spare key across the kitchen table.

Eleanor moved into the guest room herself, surrendering her first-floor bedroom to Brian. He protested, but she waved him off, saying, “These knees haven’t climbed stairs in years anyway.” The gesture unspooled something in his chest---not relief, exactly, but the quiet shock of being chosen.

The next morning, Eleanor declared, “We’re starting fresh,” and drove to a department store. She moved through the store with purpose. “You need pretty apparel that fit,” she said, holding up a padded A-cup bra. “And proper shoes. No more of those ratty sneakers.” Holding shiny white Mary Jane shoes in her other hand.