For the first time, they had nothing to say.

The lawsuit took nearly a year. My father lost his company. My stepmother sold her jewelry. My stepsister’s lies unraveled.

The house was restored.

My room became mine again. My mother’s photos filled the walls. Her letters sat by the window in the sunlight.

A year later, I stood at Gate 23 again.

This time, I held one ticket.

Florence.

Paid for with what my mother had left me.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t asking for a place.

I already had one.