The house fought her every step of the way. A pipe burst under the sink. The circuit breaker tripped twice. A bird died in the chimney, leaving a sour smell that wouldn’t lift. Every time she thought about the attic, a different feeling took hold. Gratitude. Anger. Guilt. Relief. Bitterness. Repeat.
That night, she sat on the back steps with a beer and stared at the yard; overgrown, tangled, wild in a way it hadn’t been when she was a child. Somewhere under all that was a garden. She remembered helping plant it once, her small hands digging into the dirt while her uncle muttered about spacing and sun exposure.