The sterile smell of the hospital room was suffocating, but it was better than the suffocating weight of Luca’s presence.

Three days after the sentencing, I drove back to the small brick house.

The neighborhood looked exactly as it always had—quiet, sunlit, lined with tall oak trees whose leaves were turning brilliant shades of amber and gold. The front lawn was neat, the flowerbeds my father had planted still blooming with late-season marigolds.

I parked in the driveway, turned off the engine, and unbuckled Maya from her car seat.

As I walked up the front steps, holding my daughter in one arm and a small cardboard box containing my final few belongings from the hospital in the other, I paused at the front door.

The brass handle was cool to the touch.

When my father handed me the spare key the day before he passed away, he had told me something I never forgot.

“A house is just bricks and wood, Jessi. But a home is something nobody can ever take away from you, as long as you have the courage to stand your ground.”

I slid the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.

The interior smelled faintly of old books, lemon polish, and the familiar, comforting scent of my father’s workshop. The kitchen was bright and spotless. Above the pantry door, a brand-new, state-of-the-art security camera hummed quietly in the corner, its blue indicator light pulsing with a steady, watchful rhythm.

There were no papers on the kitchen island. No transfer documents. No pens waiting to trap me.

Just space. Just light. Just peace.

I walked over to the kitchen island, set Maya down in her portable baby bouncer, and pulled a soft rattle from her diaper bag. She shook it vigorously, letting out a bright, infectious giggle that bounced off the brick walls and filled every empty corner of the house.

I knelt down beside her, taking her tiny, warm hand in mine.