Or what I believed was home.

The bus dropped me three blocks away. I ran the rest, lungs burning, heart pounding like it could outrun time itself. The street looked familiar at first—the cracked sidewalks, the old maple tree sagging at the corner—but the closer I got, the more wrong it felt.

The porch railing was still there, but the peeling white paint was gone, replaced with a fresh slate-blue finish. The wild flower beds my father loved were trimmed and manicured, filled with plants I didn’t recognize. And the driveway—once empty—now held a polished sedan and an SUV, foreign and expensive.

I slowed.

Still, I climbed the steps.

The front door used to be dull navy—chosen because it “hid dirt best.” Now it was charcoal gray with a brass knocker. Where the crooked brown welcome mat once sat, there was a pristine coir mat that read: