At the end of our second meeting, Howard asked if I had thought about selling the house.

“It’s Finn’s home,” I said right away.

“I understand that.

But don’t let the symbol become more important than the boy.”

I drove home turning that over in my mind.

The swing set, the kitchen tile, the pencil marks on the pantry door where we had measured Finn’s height—every bit of it mattered.

But Howard was right that a safe home wasn’t just an address.

I could build a new one somewhere else if I had to.