I walk to the edge of the porch and brush my fingers over the railing. She and Dad built it one summer, insisting on doing it themselves, even though neither of them knew a thing about construction. “It’s good to learn something new,” Mom said as she wiped sawdust off her hands, and Dad muttered something about hiring professionals next time.
She was always like that—unapologetically ambitious and endlessly optimistic. She made the house feel alive, every corner touched by her creativity. The flowerbeds in the front yard were hers, planted with a mix of roses and wildflowers because she couldn’t decide between “elegant” and “chaotic.”
When I keep them up, it feels like she’s still here, like I’m tending to a piece of her. And when I can’t—when weeds start to creep in—I feel like I’m failing her.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me out of the memory. I grab it and see three notifications light up the screen:
ELENA:Happy birthday, babe! Celebrate like the world revolves around you (because it does)! Also, remember to live a little today—do not make me come rescue you from work hell.
I can’t help but smile, even as I shake my head.Celebrate? Sure, let me just roll out the red carpet and cancel all the chaos in my life.Still, Elena’s enthusiasm is infectious in small doses. I type back:
ME:Thanks, queen. I’ll celebrate once I survive this morning. Bring tequila later, and maybe I’ll forgive you for texting me this early.
I hitsendjust as the next message catches my eye.
Promo Text:“Happy Birthday from Central Savings Bank! Unlock your exclusive loan offer today with rates as low as 4.9%!”
I blink at the message, then snort. “Wow, Central Savings, you really know how to make a girl feel special. Forget flowers or cake—nothing sayswe carelike debt.”
The small laugh fizzles out as I open the third notification.
CINDY (Lexicon Law Partners):Received countersuit from Mike and Peggy regarding property claims. Need to discuss ASAP.
My stomach tightens as I read the words.Countersuit?
Of course. Because it’s not enough that Mike and Peggy are already trying to sell the house out from under me—they need to escalate things, drag it out, make it even messier. They’llargue that selling the house is the “responsible” thing to do, that I’m clinging to something impractical. But they don’t see the flowerbeds Mom planted, or the dents in the porch rail where Dad bumped into it with the ladder every Christmas, or the tiny pencil marks in the hallway marking Julian’s and my heights over the years.
To them, it’s just property. To me, it’s home.
It’s the one piece of my parents I have left, and I’ll be damned if I let them turn it into another notch in their real estate portfolio.
“Of course they did,” I mutter, locking the screen and walking down the porch steps. My boots thud against the wood, the sound grounding me. The car is parked along the curb, the same spot where Dad used to park his SUV after a long day at work.
As I step onto the sidewalk, I glance down at the phone in my hand, debating. Should I reply now or wait until I’ve had a moment to breathe? On the one hand, Cindy will want a plan—and soon. On the other, I can feel the heat behind my eyes, the kind that warns that a full meltdown is coming if I don’t pace myself.
I press my fingers to my temples, breathing in slowly. “They couldn’t just let it go, could they? Oh no, let’s ruin Bella’s birthdayandher life in one neat package. Efficient, really.”
I slip into the driver’s seat, tossing the phone onto the passenger side. My reflection stares back at me from the rearview mirror: dark circles, a loose strand of hair refusing to stay tucked into my bun, and the distinct look of someone who just barely held it together through morning chaos.
“You’ve got this, Bella,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “Just a countersuit. Totally normal. People fight their family over property all the time.”
“Talking to yourself again, Bella?”
Mrs. Harrison’s voice makes me jump. I look up to see her standing in her driveway, leaning on her ever-present rake. Her silver hair glints in the sunlight and her floral sweater—a kaleidoscope of clashing pastels—would look ridiculous on anyone else.
“Not at all,” I say, raising the phone. “Just enjoying some light morning reading. Court documents make the best birthday presents.”
She frowns, the kind of disapproving look only an octogenarian neighbor can pull off. “Those two should be ashamed of themselves. Your parents worked so hard to build that home, and now they want to tear it apart.”
“They’re termites,” I reply, letting out a dry laugh. “But I’ll deal with them. Mom always said we don’t back down from a fight.”
Mrs. Harrison nods, leaning on the rake like it’s a sword. “Your mother had more grit in her little finger than most people have in their whole body. She’d be proud of you, Bella. Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.”
Her words hit harder than I expect, a lump forming in my throat. “Thanks, Mrs. H,” I say softly, giving her a small wave as I close the car door.
The engine sputters, coughs, and finally roars to life like an asthmatic cat. The dashboard is a sea of warning lights that I’ve been ignoring for months. I glance in the rearview mirror one last time, my eyes catching on the house. The sunlight makes the flowerbeds glow, and for a split second, I imagine Mom stepping onto the porch, waving goodbye like she used to.
“Happy birthday to me,” I whisper, pulling out onto the street.
