Chapter 9 - The First Green Shoot
Spring in Pennsylvania arrives with a sudden, violent explosion of green that washes over the grey stone of the city like a watercolor cure.
By late April, my agency had doubled its staff, leased a proper studio space in Old City with exposed brick and tall arched windows, and was finally turning a profit robust enough to fund a proper college savings plan for Lily without having to juggle grocery bills or ignore car repairs.
Lily was seven now. Her hair had grown out into long, sun-streaked curls, and she had developed a fierce, unapologetic love for painting watercolors that she insisted on taping to every available wall in our apartment.
On a Saturday morning in early May, we were sitting on the balcony of our Chestnut Hill apartment, planting window boxes with red geraniums and trailing ivy.
"Mom," Lily said, her hands covered in dark potting soil as she patted down the earth around a particularly stubborn root ball. "Do you think we’ll ever go back to Grandma’s house?"
I paused, holding a trowel of soil in my gloved hand. I looked down at her—at her bright, clear eyes, her sturdy shoulders, and the absolute lack of hesitation in her posture. She didn't look like a child who felt she had to tiptoe around the edges of the room to avoid taking up space.
"No, sweetie," I said, my voice steady and warm. "We’re not going back there."
"Good," she said simply, wiping a dirty forearm across her forehead and leaving a smudge of black dirt right across her nose. "I like our house better anyway. Nobody tells us to be quiet here."
"Nobody," I agreed, reaching out to wipe the dirt off her nose with my thumb. "Here, you can be as loud as you want."
She smiled—a wide, gap-toothed grin that reached all the way to her eyes—and went back to planting her ivy.
May you like
Inside, my phone sat on the kitchen counter, silent and dark. No frantic text messages from Rachel. No guilt-laden letters from my mother. No emergency calls from a father who had spent his life waiting for someone else to pay the interest on his mistakes.
I stood up, stretched my back against the warm spring sun, and took a deep breath of the damp earth and blooming dogwoods. The past was a country I had finally been evicted from—and as I looked down at my daughter laughing over a box of dirt and red flowers, I knew it was the best eviction notice I had ever received.
