“It was your father’s watch.”
“Fair point.”
She smiled.
Across the street, a moving truck backed into a driveway. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked. The evening smelled of cut grass and someone’s barbecue.
Nothing cinematic happened.
No one arrived with a badge.
No document needed signing.
No secret was uncovered.
Mom leaned back and looked at the upstairs windows glowing in the sunset.
“Do you regret buying this place?” she asked.
I looked at the house I had once believed money alone could make safe.
“No.”
“Even after everything?”
“Especially after everything.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I smiled.
“Now we finally know who it belongs to.”
Mom glanced at me.
“The county says you.”
“I wasn’t talking about the county.”
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then she reached across the small porch table and squeezed my hand.
The house had always carried my name on the deed.
But that night, for the first time since I bought it, it truly felt like Mom’s home.
