We entered a quiet, wooded neighborhood in North Dallas.

The trees here were old oaks, their branches thick and low, shading the wide streets.

Carlos pulled into a long driveway made of crushed gray gravel.

At the end of the drive stood a beautiful, single-story home made of light limestone and dark wood.

It was modern, clean, and completely mine.

“We’re here,” I said, opening my door.

The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and warm pine.

Ruby hopped out of the car first, her small shoes crunching on the gravel.

“Is this our new house?” she asked, her eyes wide as she looked at the tall glass windows.

“It is,” I said, taking her hand.

“There are no big statues,” Hazel noted, walking beside me. “And no iron gates.”

“We don’t need gates to be safe,” I told her.

I unlocked the heavy oak front door.

Inside, the floors were white oak, smooth and cool under my feet.

The living room was filled with natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a green backyard.

There was a swing set already installed near a patch of bluebonnets.