I stood at the gate and stared.
“So this is where he lives?”
“Yes,” David said.
I looked at the enormous property again.
“For how long?”
David hesitated.
“Many years.”
Many years.
I thought about that phrase all the way to the front door.
Many years while I learned which foster parents locked snacks away after dinner.
Many years while I wore donated clothes.
Many years while I learned not to unpack everything because someone might decide I was “not a good fit” the following month.
My father had been here.
Living behind these gates.
While I was learning how to survive without him.
A woman opened the front door before we even reached it.
She looked about thirty-five.
Beautiful.
Polished.
Completely at home.
