« You never use it. »
« It was just sitting there. »
I closed my eyes.
The farmhouse wasn’t abandoned.
It was my grandmother’s home.
She’d left it to me when she passed away.
Eighty acres of restored apple orchards.
Wildflower meadows.
A private lake.
A barn I’d transformed into a retreat where young adults aging out of foster care could spend weekends learning job skills and simply feel safe.