I sat on the porch step, wearing an old denim jacket, holding a hot cup of black coffee. A stray dog I had adopted a few months ago—a scruffy golden mix named Barnaby—lay beside my feet, thumping his tail lazily against the wooden planks.
My phone chimed from inside the house. I got up, grabbed it, and looked at the notification.
It was a news alert:
“COLE ENTERPRISES SHARES PLUMMET AFTER CEO SCANDAL; ETHAN COLE STEPS DOWN AMID FINANCIAL TURMOIL.”
I scrolled down out of idle curiosity. The article detailed how Ethan’s impulsiveness and damaged public reputation had eroded shareholder trust. Chloe had left him three months prior after realizing the high-society lifestyle wasn’t as glamorous or effortless as it seemed, taking a sizable lump-sum payout with her. Willow Creek Mansion was officially up for sale.
I closed the article. There was no joy in reading it. No bitter satisfaction or sense of revenge. Just a quiet, profound pity for a man who tore down a palace to build a house of cards.
I locked my phone and placed it facedown on the porch table.
Walking back down to the garden, I knelt in the fresh soil, pulling a few stray weeds from around the tomatoes. My fingers were dirt-stained, my face was warm from the sun, and the air was filled with the sound of chirping birds and rustling leaves.
Twelve years ago, a boy promised me he would give me the world.
It took me twelve years to realize that he didn’t have the world to give—because the only world worth having was the one I could build with my own two hands.
I took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air, closed my eyes, and smiled.
I was finally home.
