The morning after we buried my father, my ex-husband’s new wife walked straight into his garden and told me to begin packing my belongings.

trees draped in moss, the endless garden beds my mother had once sketched in a notebook before she died. It was more than property. It was memory with walls. It was my childhood, my grief, my father’s hands in the soil, my mother’s voice carried through summer windows.

“This place is worth millions, Hannah,” Brooke said. “Did you really believe nobody continue reading …