In her right hand: a folded deed, brittle at the creases, smelling faintly of old paper and smoke. The only other thing her father had given her from her grandmother’s “effects,” as he’d called them with the same flat tone he used for broken fence posts.
“A grown woman makes her own way,” he’d said, eyes fixed on the far wall of the kitchen like the plaster was more interesting than his daughter leaving. Not cruel. Not tender. Just… arithmetic.
One less mouth. One less coat to patch. One less set of boots to outgrow.
Lena didn’t look back at the house. If she did, she would see her little brother, Caleb, watching from behind the rippled window glass with a face too pale for an eighteen-year-old boy who still believed family meant something permanent.
Looking back was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
So she started walking.
