Weeks later, my Chevrolet sat in the driveway, clean and running better than ever before. The porch had a fresh coat of pale yellow paint, thanks to Harold and one very determined eight-year-old with a paint roller too big for her hands.
As if it were a live grenade.
A “For Sale” sign had gone up next door after the fines came through.
Olivia curled against my side on the mended porch as the sun dipped low over the lake.
“Mom, we’re home now, right?”
“Yeah, baby,” I whispered. “We’re home.”
I realized my dad hadn’t just left me any old house.
