Leo and I moved into Gianna’s little house on a Saturday.
It wasn’t a mansion.
There were no marble floors.
No private driveway lined with expensive cars.
No rooms filled with things we barely used.
It was simply a little house that belonged to us.
No one could threaten to take it away.
No one could use it as leverage.
No one could tell us we didn’t deserve it.
On our first morning there, I walked into the kitchen.
And there, sitting on the table, was a small jar of wildflowers.
They had been picked from the yard behind the porch.
I stood there looking at them for a long time.
Then I smiled.
Some things don’t change.
