On the walk home, we passed a real estate office displaying photographs of grand houses and glossy kitchens.

Tommy stopped at the window, then pointed to a small cottage near a lake.

“That one’s nice,” he said.

“But ours has the bakery.”

I smiled.

We had lost the big house.

We had not lost the ability to feel at home.

It had taken me twelve years and a courtroom full of paperwork to learn the difference.