Evenings in the Finch house arrived without ceremony, slipping in through open windows and settling along the walls. Atticus came home with the measured quiet he carried everywhere, hanging his hat and saying, “If you two don’t lower your voices, I’ll start thinking the house is coming apart.” Jem protested too quickly, Scout protested louder, and Atticus sighed, patient as ever. “That’s enough. Neither of you is on trial, and even if you were, shouting wouldn’t help.” His wife remained nearby, a familiar presence shaped by years that began in Montgomery and led them, improbably, here.

Maycomb still puzzled over that beginning. Folks remembered Atticus Finch as predictable, steady, and entirely sensible, which was precisely why they whispered. His wife had a way of drifting inward at times, of losing hold of the present just enough to be noticed. It had grown a little more pronounced after the children came, worn thin by sleepless nights and constant care. Atticus never treated it as fragility. “Everyone carries their burdens differently,” he once said, voice calm. “The mistake is pretending they don’t exist.” Scout accepted the world as it came. Jem noticed more, but not with judgment.

There was no hired help in the Finch home. Atticus preferred it that way, and his wife insisted upon it even on harder days. Work was divided by necessity rather than pride. Atticus’ law practice kept them comfortable, known and quietly respected, but there were also dresses stitched and hems repaired, small earnings that added security. Atticus spoke of it plainly. “A household runs better when everyone contributes how they can,” he said, as if explaining the weather.

Supper brought the day into focus. Atticus removed his glasses and set his papers aside, signaling the shift. “I spent today reminding a courtroom that the law doesn’t bend for convenience,” he said. Jem interrupted, Scout followed, and Atticus raised a hand. “One at a time,” he warned gently. “If you want to be heard, you have to make room for others.” His wife listened without comment, receiving the details with the steady attention he relied upon when the work weighed heavy.

Arguments flared easily when the children grew tired. Atticus stepped in before they tipped too far. “Jem, you know better than to needle your sister,” he said. “Scout, there’s no prize for the last word.” His tone never sharpened. “Understanding lasts longer than winning,” he added, as if speaking just as much to himself. The tension eased, not erased, but guided into something manageable.

As the house quieted, Atticus spoke more freely. “This case will give the town something to chew on,” he said, rubbing at his temple. “They already question my judgment.” There was no resentment in it. “I don’t expect approval,” he continued. “I expect to be right.” The lamplight softened the room, and the weight of the day settled into shared silence.

Upstairs, Scout’s sleep came easy and Jem’s came slowly, full of questions waiting for morning. Atticus paused in the hallway, listening. “We’re doing all right,” he said quietly, as if reassuring the walls themselves. In a town full of watchful eyes and careful opinions, the Finch family endured as it was, imperfect, questioned, and bound together by patience and an unspoken understanding that some things did not need defending.