Six months later, in June, I pulled into the driveway of the house on the peninsula. The moss was still on the roof. The air still smelled of salt and cedar.
I walked inside.
It was empty. My furniture was gone, lost to the dumpster, but the house stood.
I walked out onto the back porch. Liam was there. He had flown down from Maine to help me move back in. He was leaning on the railing, watching the ocean.
“It’s a fixer-upper,” he joked, looking at the empty living room.
“It’s a home,” I corrected him.
I walked up to him and took his hand. He squeezed it.
“Did you hear from him?” Liam asked. “Your dad.”
I shook my head.
“He sent a letter from prison. Blaming me, saying I ruined the family.”
“He ruined the family,” Liam said firmly. “You just survived it.”
I looked up at the North Ridge. Through my binoculars, I could see movement in the high branches of the ancient spruce trees—the marbled murrelets.
They were nesting.
They were safe.
The land was safe.
I had lost my parents. I had lost my sister. I had lost the illusion of a happy childhood. But I had saved the one thing that mattered. I had saved the sanctuary.
“Ready to start over?” Liam asked.
“Yeah,” I said, taking a deep breath of the clean, salty air. “I’m ready.”
So, that is my story. I sent my own father to prison to save my home. Some people say I went too far. Some say blood is thicker than water. But I say sometimes you have to cut off a limb to save the body.
What do you think? Did I do the right thing, or was I too harsh? Let me know in the comments below.
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