After spending three years in prison, I came home expecting to hug my father. Instead, my stepmother opened the door and said, “He died a year ago. This house is mine now.” I quietly went to the cemetery with an old key in my pocket, never imagining that the groundskeeper would
whisper something that changed everything.
“Your father died a year ago, Finnley. This house doesn’t belong to you anymore. So don’t make a scene. Just leave.”
Reagan said it without looking away.