When she told Walter, he was horrified.

“Riley, that’s not right. People will think terrible things.”

“I don’t care what they think. I just want to live in a place where someone cares if I come home.”

Walter hesitated. But he saw the fear in her eyes. Eventually, he nodded.

Their wedding was quiet—just the two of them and two strangers from the courthouse line. No flowers, no rings. Only signatures.

Afterward, they walked home like nothing had changed. She still called him “Walt” or, sometimes, “Uncle Walt” out of habit. He never minded.

But society did. Child Protective Services came knocking. They questioned her, tried to separate them, opened a court case. They spoke of coercion, of impropriety.

Riley refused to be intimidated.

“Society didn’t raise me,” Riley said. “Society left me to rot. Walter didn’t.”

The judge ruled in their favor.

The case was appealed, but Riley and Walter stood firm. She graduated high school, started college, got a job at the town library. Gossip died down.

Walter turned 72. His hands began to tremble. He forgot words. Riley cooked, cleaned, held his hand when he drifted off to sleep.

“You know,” he once whispered, “I thought I’d grow old with grandkids playing chess with me.”

“You have me,” Riley said. “I’ll be here.”

He passed peacefully one night, listening to her read.

Riley buried him in Maple Creek, beneath an oak tree. He had left everything to her—the house, the books, even the old teapot they always used.

Neighbors, once suspicious, now nodded kindly when they passed. Riley still lived there. Still read in the same chair. Still made tea.