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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.
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