They were silent.
Then Mason said something that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
“Then let’s start.”
The next morning, we drove to Elmwood Ridge.
I almost refused to go.
I kept saying the house was theirs.
They kept saying it was mine.
When we finally turned onto the long tree-lined road, my hands began shaking.
There it was.
Exactly as I remembered.
White siding.
Dark green shutters.
Wide porch.
Tall windows.
A stone path leading through a garden that had clearly been neglected for months.
I got out of the car.
For a moment, I simply stood there.
I remembered being twenty-nine years old, walking past this house with two small boys holding my hands.
Mason had been eating an ice cream cone.
Noah had been carrying a tiny yellow watering can.
I had stopped to stare at the house.
Noah had asked me why.
I had laughed and said, “Because it’s beautiful.”
Mason had asked, “Do you want it?”
I had said, “Maybe someday.”
I never thought they would remember.
But they did.
We walked up the porch.
Mason handed me the keys.
“Go ahead.”
I inserted the key into the lock.
For thirteen years, every key I had carried had opened a door that belonged to someone else.
A rental.
A temporary place.
A home I was always afraid I might lose.
This key was different.
I turned it.
The lock clicked.
I opened the door.
And I cried.
The house was empty.
There was no furniture.
No decorations.
No photographs.
No signs of life.
But sunlight poured through the windows.
And for the first time in my life, I could see the possibility of something that was mine.
I walked into the living room.
There was a fireplace.
A large window overlooking the garden.
A staircase leading upstairs.
I ran my fingers along the wooden railing.
“This is too much.”
Noah shook his head.
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