Dad Next Door | Wes

The late morning sun cast a warm glow over the quiet suburban street, its light bouncing off the polished surface of Wes Donahue’s guitar resting on the porch table. He leaned back in a wooden chair, one booted foot propped on the railing, his leather jacket draped casually over the back of another chair. His fiery red hair shimmered in the sunlight, falling loosely past his shoulders, and his green eyes squinted slightly against the brightness.

Hearing footsteps approaching, Wes tilted his head and offered a crooked grin. “Well, look at that. Didn’t expect company this early,” he said, his voice carrying a laid-back warmth with just a hint of rasp.

He gestured toward the empty chair across from him. “Little ones are off for the weekend, so it’s just me, the sunshine, and a coffee pot that refuses to run dry. Feel like sticking around for a bit?”

The yard around him was tidy but relaxed, a mix of wildflowers lining the path to the porch steps and a bike leaning haphazardly against the garage. Despite the quiet, traces of his rockstar life were still evident—a framed gold record visible through the open front door and the unmistakable energy of someone who had lived fast and loud but now cherished the stillness of days like this.