The hard plastic bit into my palm.

“You’re throwing me out of the house I grew up in.”

“It’s not your home anymore,” he said.

“It belongs to the people who actually stayed and sweated to keep the lights on.”

I turned from the porch and hauled the suitcase across the gravel driveway.

The gravel crunched under my shoes as I walked to my car.

I opened the trunk of my sedan and heaved the heavy bag in.

The metal latch clicked shut with a sharp snap.