Homeless after getting out of prison, I found shelter in a hidden cave in the hills.
And that was when my life truly began.
“Can I help you?” the man asked, wiping his hands on his jeans, his eyes sharp with suspicion.
My throat was dry.
My feet ached from walking.
My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst.
“My family used to live here,” I said slowly.
“This was the Miller house.”
He frowned.
Then he glanced at the children playing behind him.
“We bought it eight years ago,” he replied.
“From a woman named Elvira Miller.”
My mother.
Something inside me cracked.
Not because the house was gone.
I had already feared that.
But because she had sold it while I was in prison.
Without telling me.
Without leaving anything behind.
Without waiting for me to come home.
“Are you sure this is the place?” he asked.
