I put my fingertips against the first one.

A little girl had arrived here carrying two garbage bags, convinced she had done something wrong.

An old man had opened the door and given her breakfast.

Seventeen years later, the people who left her had returned with a truck, believing the house was theirs for the taking.

They had counted bedrooms and land and money.

Grandpa had counted years of love.

I stepped inside, closed the door, and turned my own key in the lock.

For the first time, I wasn’t afraid of anyone coming to tell me I didn’t belong.

I already knew that I did.