saying she was ready to forgive me.
I did not respond.
I walked outside instead.
The iron gate stood open for a delivery truck I had authorized.
Sunlight stretched across the driveway where my parents had once stood frozen before the truth.
I looked down at my shoes—sturdy leather boots I had chosen and paid for myself—then closed the gate with one touch of my phone.
The lock clicked into place.
For the first time, the sound of a door closing did not mean I had been cast out.
It meant I was home.
