Years later, a young woman named Priya bought the house across the street. I brought her cookies on moving day, no agenda, no expectations—just kindness with no conditions.
When I walked back home, I looked at my house again.
Not as an asset to defend.
Not as proof I had survived.
Just as home.
The best investment I ever made was not the house itself.
It was the habit my mother taught me.
Write things down.
Pay attention.
Know what belongs to you.
I had listened when the spoon scraped the bottom of the pot.
