The woman’s brows knitted. “What question?”

“The one that haunted Logan until his final days,” I said, my voice low but firm. “If you can answer it truthfully, I’ll hand over the keys without another word.”

They exchanged a glance, confused but intrigued. “What question?” the man repeated.

I swallowed hard. “Why did you leave him at the train station when he was twelve years old?”

It was the story Logan had told me one night, long after midnight, when his guard was down and grief swam close to the surface.

He had been twelve, waiting at the train station with a small suitcase, believing he was going to spend the weekend at his grandmother’s. His parents had dropped him off and said they would be right back. He waited for hours, but they never returned. His grandmother eventually came to get him, furious and bewildered, but the damage was already done. He carried that wound his entire life, a question that burned: why had they left him there?

When I asked him if he ever confronted them, he shook his head. “What’s the point? They’d never admit it. They probably don’t even remember. But I do. I remember every minute.”

Now, standing before them, I watched their faces closely. The woman paled. The man’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman snapped.

“You do,” I said quietly. “He never forgot. He wanted to know why. If you can tell me the truth—if you can give me the answer he never got—I’ll hand you these keys. Otherwise, you have no claim here.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, the man spoke. His voice was lower now, rougher. “We didn’t leave him. Not on purpose.”

The woman shot him a warning look, but he pressed on. “We were supposed to catch a train ourselves that day. We were… using. Drugs. We lost track of time. By the time we came back, his grandmother had already picked him up. We were too ashamed to face him. Too ashamed to face anyone.”

My stomach turned. Logan had suspected neglect, cruelty, abandonment—but hearing the truth, even secondhand, twisted the knife deeper.

“You let him believe you abandoned him,” I whispered.

The woman’s eyes flashed with anger. “We did what we could. We weren’t perfect, but we’re his parents. That house is our legacy.”

I stepped forward, my voice shaking with fury. “Legacy? You threw away your legacy the moment you left a twelve-year-old boy alone at a train station. You abandoned him in more ways than one. And now you think you can show up, after his death, and take what little peace he left behind? No. You don’t get to rewrite history.”

The man looked down at his shoes, silent. The woman bristled, but I could see the cracks in her composure.

“This house isn’t yours,” I continued. “It was never yours. Logan chose to give it to me because he knew I would honor it. Honor him. You had your chance. You wasted it.”

With that, I shut the door in their faces.

They tried, of course. They hired a lawyer, sent letters demanding property rights. But the will was airtight, and the truth of their past made their claims look hollow. In the end, they gave up, their voices fading back into the silence from which they had come.

I stayed in the house, raising the memories of Logan like fragile glass, protecting what he had entrusted to me. Sometimes I sat on the porch in the evenings, staring at the horizon, wondering if he knew—if he could see somehow—that I had asked his question, demanded his answer, and carried his story forward.

I hoped he did.

Because the truth was this: grief doesn’t end when the door closes on unwelcome visitors. It lingers, reshaping itself every day. But in defending the home he loved, in holding his parents accountable, I felt a piece of him settle beside me.

And in that quiet, I whispered what I wished I could have told him in life:

“They couldn’t answer the question, not really. But I did. I stood for you. And I always will.”