Chapter 9: Restoration
Weeks passed, and the checks arrived—bitter, late, and accompanied by snide remarks—but they cleared. I used the money to plant a new rose garden in the front yard, the kind Gran always wanted but never had the energy to maintain.
Now, I sit on the porch swing in the evenings. The house doesn’t smell like grease or rot anymore. It smells like fresh paint and the salt air blowing in from the coast. I realized that Lydia didn’t destroy my memories; she only forced me to polish them.
I walked into Gran’s room last night. I placed the framed court ruling in her bottom desk drawer, next to her old Bible and a photo of us at the beach. I ran my hand over the smooth, white wall.
“We’re okay, Gran,” I whispered into the quiet. “We’re still here.”
I am Elena. I am a painter of stories, a keeper of houses, and finally, I am a woman who knows exactly how much she is worth.
