But my mother said I'd never contributed to the family.
Eight million dollars in demolition compensation, and I didn't see a cent.
A shrill ringtone cut through my thoughts.
It was my mother.
"Where are you?"
I looked up and around. "At the peach orchard."
Twenty-five years. Survival of the fittest. The trees had been replanted three times over. The current ones wouldn't bear fruit until next year.
My mother's voice was sharp with displeasure. "Why haven't you come home to cook?"
"Mom, there are some things I need to sort through."
"Everyone's still hungry. Whatever it is, it can wait until after dinner. Get home. Now."
Home? Which home?
The one that was about to be demolished?
I used to have a home. Because of them, I'd thrown it away with my own hands.
I didn't have a home anymore.
I hung up, but my feet kept moving.
In a daze, I walked to the next village and found myself standing in front of my ex-husband's house.
The door was shut.
Sebastian Perry worked in the city now. He'd taken our son there for elementary school.
The five years I'd lived here were the only happy years I could remember.
I stood there for a while, then turned to leave.
But where was I supposed to go?