Chapter 9 - Roots and Soil
October turned into November, casting a golden, crisp blanket over the city. I decided to take a weekend drive back to my hometown—not to visit my parents, and certainly not to look at the old house.
I parked my car three blocks away from Maple Street and walked on foot, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my wool coat. The air smelled of crisp fallen leaves and woodsmoke, just like it always did in Ohio.
When I reached the corner of the familiar street, I slowed my pace.
The house looked different. A new family had already moved in—a young couple with a golden retriever bounding across the front lawn. The "For Sale" sign was gone, replaced by a welcoming pumpkin display on the porch steps.
I stopped across the street, standing beneath the canopy of a neighbor's oak tree, and looked toward the front yard.
The sugar maple tree I had planted when I was ten stood tall and proud against the pale autumn sky, its leaves burning a brilliant, fiery orange. It didn't belong to Jake anymore. It didn't belong to the bank, or the county, or the registry of deeds.
It belonged to the earth. Its roots ran deep, anchored by the soil and nourished by the rain, completely independent of whatever human drama played out around its trunk.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting another frantic family update.
Instead, it was a photo message from Mom.
It was a picture of a modest, sunlit living room with a small floral sofa and a steaming mug of tea on the coffee table. No grand estates, no sprawling backyards, no hidden wills.
May you like
Beneath the photo, she had written: “We're settled into the new place, honey. The tea is hot. You're always welcome to come visit us—just as you are.”
I stared at the screen for a long moment, a quiet smile touching my lips.
