Chapter 8 - A Place to Call Home
By late October, the golden sunflower fields of Kansas were harvested, leaving behind wide, peaceful rolling hills under brilliant blue skies.
The two million dollars raised by the national GoFundMe campaign had been placed into an irrevocable trust managed by a board that included Colleen Foster and Sheriff Robert Bradley.
The first decision made by the trust was to purchase a permanent, safe home for Clara, Maya, Noah, and Liam.
On a bright Saturday morning, a caravan of cars pulled up to a beautiful, two-story farmhouse located on three acres of land just two miles outside the town of South Haven. The house featured a wide wraparound porch, bright white siding, a brand-new roof, and a massive garden filled with blooming yellow chrysanthemums.
Colleen Foster stepped out of the lead car, holding the front door keys in her hand.
Clara stepped out of her new, reliable silver SUV—purchased outright by the trust—and looked up at the house, her eyes filling with tears of disbelief.
"Colleen..." Clara whispered, holding two-month-old Noah against her chest, while Sarah Vance carried Liam beside her. "This... this is too much. We don't deserve this."
"Clara," Colleen said gently, putting her arm around Clara’s shoulders. "You and your children deserve every single blade of grass on this property. You fought through hell. This is your heaven."
Maya ran ahead across the lush green lawn, her feet fully healed, wearing a bright pair of red running shoes. She bounded up the front porch steps and looked through the glass window into the living room.
Inside, the house was fully furnished. A large, cozy stone fireplace dominated the living room. Two wooden cribs sat in a sunlit nursery down the hall, decorated with hand-painted sunflower murals created by the nursing staff at Mercy General.
"Look, Mommy!" Maya shouted, pointing toward the side yard. "Look!"
Clara walked up onto the porch and looked where Maya was pointing.
Sitting near the edge of the garden patch was a sight that made Clara catch her breath.
It was Granddaddy’s old wheelbarrow.
The hospital staff and local fire department had secretly taken the rusted metal wheelbarrow from the evidence locker after the trial. They had sandblasted the rust away, painted the iron frame in a gleaming, rust-proof bronze, restored the wooden handles with polished mahogany, and filled the wheelbarrow bed with rich soil planting dozens of bright yellow winter pansies.
A small bronze plaque was mounted on the front of the wheelbarrow frame:
To Maya Miller—Who carried love through the darkest night and brought her family into the sun.
Clara dropped to her knees beside the restored wheelbarrow, running her fingers over the smooth mahogany handles that her seven-year-old daughter had gripped for eight miles.
Maya walked over, wrapping her small arms around her mother’s neck.
May you like
"We’re home now, Mommy," Maya whispered into Clara’s hair.
"Yes, my sweet girl," Clara sobbed happily, kissing Maya’s cheek. "We’re home."
