Then I opened a box marked FRAGILE and lifted out the silver frame.
I placed Grandma’s photograph on the wall beside the front door.
Not in an office. Not hidden behind a stack of papers. Not in a house where anyone else could decide whether I belonged.
I stood there with one hand still resting on the frame and read her note one more time.
Some things we inherit are property.
Some are wounds.
And some, if we are careful, become permission to build a home no one can transfer away from us.
