I stood on the other side of the iron gate, duffel bag heavy in my hand, my uniform still creased from the long flight. The September air clung to my skin, thick with the smell of damp leaves and something rotting underneath. The house—my grandfather’s house—loomed behind her, every window dark except the living room. A shadow moved there. My father. He didn’t come to the door
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— Sophia, I said, my voice rusty. It’s me, Ara. I’ve been gone 25 years, but I’m home.
Her eyes, cold and sharp as the gate’s spikes, never left mine.
— There’s no home here for you. She hung up the phone and crossed her arms. We moved on. You’re not in the will. You’re not even on the deed.
The words landed like a physical blow. My knuckles whitened on the duffel strap. I could still see the sycamore tree by the attic window, the one I climbed as a girl and broke my arm. I bled on that porch. I cried in that kitchen. Now I was being erased like a stain.
