Our backyard was full of ordinary things that suddenly seemed precious. Noah’s soccer ball lay in the grass near the hydrangeas. Lily’s old birdhouse, painted yellow with crooked white flowers, hung from the fence. The patio table still held the glass pitcher of lemonade I had made that morning, before the attorney’s call, before the inheritance, before my life split open.
Lily sat down without speaking.
Noah climbed into the chair beside her and stared at his shoes.
I poured lemonade with shaking hands.
The ice clinked too loudly.
“Are we safe?” Lily asked.
I set the pitcher down.
“Yes,” I said, though I had never felt less certain. “We are safe right now.”
“Is Dad going to come back?”
I looked toward the house. Through the kitchen window, I could see blurred shapes moving inside. Daniel. Vanessa. A security officer shadowing them.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I admitted. “But he can’t make us leave. And he can’t take this home from us.”
