It turns out I’m good at law.
Maybe eight years of living inside the fine print of my own life prepared me for it.
Maybe Walter’s trust taught me how much power can hide inside a carefully written paragraph.
The roses came back.
It took two seasons.
But every June, Walter’s garden blooms again.
I cut the flowers and place them in the crystal vases Patricia once used to make me feel inadequate.
Then I sit in Walter’s chair on the porch and think about how quiet justice can be.
There is one Monroe family photograph left in the house.
Walter.
Standing in his garden.
Old cardigan.
Pruning shears in one hand.
A shy half-smile on his face.
He never raised his voice.
Never treated the house like a throne.
Never once made me feel like a guest.
Sometimes I still take out his letter.
A house is just a house, he wrote.
