Buying it would be simple now, hardly a dent in my savings. I stared at the message, remembering the stripped room and that trash bag in the center of the floor. Part of me wanted to delete it. Another part wanted to stand in front of that house as someone they could never dismiss again.
Two weeks later, on a clear spring morning, I steered my Bugatti onto that same cracked driveway. Mia’s worn-out Kia leaned crooked near the mailbox; Mom’s dull Camry sagged along the curb. The moment I shifted into park, the front door flew open. My mother and sister stepped onto the porch, squinting against the light—eyes fixed not on me, but on the engine humming at the curb.
For a beat, they only stared at the car. The Bugatti’s low purr felt out of place against the sagging porch.
Mia moved first, shielding her eyes. “Is Mr. Greene renting to celebrities now?” she joked.
I pushed the door open and stepped out. Mom’s jaw dropped. “Lauren?”
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Mia.” I closed the door and stood there in my blazer and heels. Their gazes darted between me and the car, as if searching for the punchline.
“Since when do you drive that?” Mia asked. “I thought you were still at the hospital.”