driveway.
On the anniversary of Grandma’s death, Logan brought over the original deed, now preserved inside a protective frame.
I did not hang it in the living room as a trophy.
I placed it in a secure drawer beside Ava’s medical records and the documents naming people I trusted to care for her in an emergency.
That night, Ava and I sat on the front steps eating takeout from paper cartons.
She looked at the porch, the windows and the tree Grandma had planted near the walkway.
“So nobody can make us leave?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
She rested her head against my shoulder.
For years, my parents had made me believe safety was something they rented to me one month at a time.
But the house had never been their gift.
The truth was not either.
It had been mine all along.
