Not something dramatic or poetic, and not a line borrowed from a movie, but the steady rhythm of waves rolling forward and slipping back as if the Atlantic were breathing beyond my balcony doors. Sullivan’s Island carried that soft Lowcountry humidity that makes porch lights glow in halos and turns the night air sweet with jasmine, and the house was silent in a way that almost hurt because for the first time in my adult life no one was asking me to make myself smaller.
I had spent twelve years building that moment with discipline that often felt lonely. Twelve years of turning bonuses into down payments instead of luxury bags and skipping spontaneous trips so I could one day say yes to a deed printed with my name.
At 11:20 p.m., my phone rang and the name Sylvia Kent flashed across the screen. I stared at it long enough for the vibration to pulse twice in my palm before answering.
“Lacey,” she said in the tone of someone calling a hotel front desk, without greeting or warmth, “we’re moving in tomorrow.”
For a moment I thought I had misheard her over the waves. “I’m sorry?” I asked, sitting up as the duvet slid to the floor.