“Thank you, Maria,” I said.

I sat down on the barstool next to Ruby.

She wiped a bit of mayonnaise from her lip and smiled at me.

“I like this kitchen better,” Ruby said.

“Why is that?” I asked, smoothing her hair.

“Because it doesn’t have those scary paintings of old people looking at me,” she said.

Hazel giggled.

“And the backyard has a big tree for climbing,” Hazel added.

“It does,” I said.

I looked around the room.

There were no massive crystal chandeliers, no gold-leaf molding, and no heavy velvet drapes.

There was only clean wood, bright stone, and the sound of my daughters’ voices.

I had built this.

Not with debt, not with lies, and not with a family name that commanded unearned respect.

I had built it block by block, in the dark, until the light finally found me.

I picked up Ruby and carried her to the living room, Hazel following close behind.

We sat together on the large, soft sofa, watching the wind move the branches of the oak trees outside.

For the first time in my life, I felt completely safe in my own home.

The Ralston name was gone, buried under the weight of its own empty pride.

But we were here.

We were finally home.