Derek Coleman squeezed my shoulder gently. “Whatever we build next,” he said, “we will write the terms together.”
I believed him, not because he was incapable of mistakes, but because he had listened to my entire history without flinching.
After everyone left and the apartment grew quiet, I stood in the doorway of my living room and took in the couch I had chosen, the art I loved, and the shoes still scattered near the entrance. My phone buzzed on the counter, and a message from Diane Mitchell appeared.
Thank you for dinner.
We love you.
We are proud of you.
No conditions.
I stared at the final line for a long moment before typing back.
We changed all the locks. I have all the keys.
For the first time in my life, that sentence did not feel like exile. It felt like home.
