While I was at work, my parents, my sister, and her two kids were already hauling boxes into my mountain house. Mom smiled like it was settled. “We all live here now. It’s family property.” They planned their big “move-in day.” I planned something else.

“I didn’t know quiet could feel like this,” I said. “Like safety.”

She smiled.

“Yeah,” she said. “Like safety.”

We fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the crackle of the small fire pit between us. The flames cast soft shadows across our faces.

I closed my eyes for a moment and let the warmth sink into my bones.

They can’t reach me anymore, I thought.

Not here.

Not now.

The next morning, after Jess left, I decided it was time to organize the basement.

I’d been avoiding it for weeks—partly because it held old boxes from a life before the chaos, partly because it reminded me of the day Lydia had tried to force her way inside.

But today felt different.

Today, I could face it without fear.

The basement smelled like cedar and cold concrete when I stepped inside. Dust motes danced in the rays of light streaming from the small windows.

I sorted through boxes, donating old hiking gear, storing winter blankets, tossing broken tools.

The work felt meditative.

Grounding.

At one point, I found a box labeled MARA — COLLEGE.