“It’s mostly boring,” I said. “But boring can be good.”

He nodded once, barely.

My eyes drifted to his hands. “The gloves,” I said, aiming for casual. “You don’t have to wear them here. This is your house this summer too.”

His gaze flicked up, then away. “It’s nothing,” he said. “My hands are just sensitive.”

“Sensitive how?” I asked, quieter.

He shrugged. “Cold. Dry. It helps.”

I could’ve pushed. I could’ve asked why leather gloves in June. I could’ve asked why he sounded like he was delivering lines.

But Lila watched from the kitchen window with careful hope, and I didn’t want to turn our first real conversation into a cross-examination.

So I let it go.

That’s what you do when you’re trying to love someone right. You give them space.

That night, I woke up to running water.

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Moral My nephew spent summer with me, wearing gloves constantly—even inside. He said his hands were “just sensitive,” so I didn’t push. One morning, I walked into the bathroom. His gloves were off. What I saw on his palms froze me.