Ownership was never the most important thing.
Freedom was.
On the fifth anniversary of that terrible wedding night, we gathered in my backyard again.
The roses had climbed almost to the roof.
Daniel brought wine.
Marcus brought terrible jokes.
Alexander brought a photograph album.
Sofia arrived last.
Ethan beside her.
And between them walked a little girl with dark curls.
My granddaughter.
She ran straight toward the roses.
Sofia called after her.
“Careful!”
The little girl stopped beside one old strip of white wedding fabric still tied around a wooden stake.
“What’s this?”
Sofia walked over.
She touched the fabric.
For a moment, I wondered how much she would tell her daughter someday.
Not yet.
Not that day.
She smiled.
“That belonged to an old dress.”
“Was it pretty?”
Sofia looked across the garden at all of us.
At Alexander.
At me.
At Daniel.
At Ethan.
Then at the little girl.
