That was the whole point.

My grandmother had built me a wall against almost anything, and my mother had found the one season in which the wall was unguarded, and gone over it.

I had grieved the house the way you grieve a person, quietly and years too late, and I had assumed it was simply gone.

My father, it turned out, had never assumed anything of the kind.

Chapter 8 — My Father Didn’t Steal