I looked out at my crooked porch, my quiet trees, and the tiny, unpretentious life I had built out of the ash of my family’s betrayal. I thought about the key hidden under the stone by the lake. I thought about Thomas, his dog, and the grandfather who had told me to make a place my own before someone else decided what it should be.
I smiled, placed the photograph on the shelf right next to Grandpa’s hand-carved lures, and closed the window.
I didn’t need to go back to the lake house. I didn’t need to claim the key under the stone. Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t searching for a home to fight for.
I was already in one.
