Chapter 9 - Foundations
Spring came early to Virginia that year.
By April, the colonial estate had sold for 1.2 million dollars—well above asking price—to a young family with three energetic golden retrievers and two toddlers who filled the lawn with laughter the day they signed the papers.
My new home was a sunlit, four-bedroom craftsman house situated on a quiet cul-de-sac surrounded by mature oak trees. It had a porch with a swing, a massive kitchen with a low island perfect for baking, and a backyard that opened directly onto a county park with miles of walking trails.
On a warm Saturday afternoon, the back yard was filled with people.
Rebecca Sloan was standing near the grill, arguing jokingly with my father about the proper way to smoke pork shoulder. Aunt Patricia had driven up from North Carolina, carrying three massive strawberry pies and an apology card she had spent twenty minutes crying over when she handed it to Nora.
Even two of my fellow PAs from the ER were there, playing frisbee with a group of neighborhood kids.
I stood on the back deck, holding a glass of iced tea, watching Nora.
She was running across the grass, her limp completely gone, her cheeks flushed with bright, healthy color. She was wearing a yellow sundress, her brown hair tied back in a messy ponytail, laughing hysterically as she chased a tiny black rescue puppy we had adopted from the shelter two weeks ago.
She stopped at the bottom of the deck steps, panting, her eyes sparkling.
"Mom! Look!" she called out, holding up a small piece of slate she had found near the garden path.
"What do we have there?" I asked, walking down the steps to join her.
She pulled a silver paint pen from her dress pocket—the same silver pen she had used on that terrible Christmas Eve four months ago.
On the flat surface of the slate, in bold, neat block letters, she had written:
THE HARPER HOUSE
Underneath it, she had drawn two figures holding hands beside a massive tree with wide, green branches that reached all the way to the top of the stone.
No crooked trees. No small figures placed at the far edge of the picture.
Right in the center.
"Can we hang it by the front door?" she asked, looking up at me with absolute, unwavering trust.
May you like
I knelt in the grass, pulled my daughter into my arms, and held her until the sun began to dip below the oak trees, casting a warm, golden light across our yard.
"We’re hanging it right above the bell," I whispered into her hair. "So everyone who comes to our door knows exactly whose castle this is."
