Chapter 9 - The Sunflower House
Four years later.
The morning sun broke over the marshlands of St. Simons Island, Georgia, painting the sky in ribbons of peach, gold, and vibrant violet. The salty air smelled of marsh grass, sweet honeysuckle, and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls coming from the kitchen.
We called our new home the Sunflower House. It was a sprawling, clapboard cottage with a wide wrap-around porch, nestled beneath centuries-old live oaks draped in Spanish moss. We had purchased it with the clean money from the trust—money that had been scrubbed clean of my father’s greed.
"Mark! Look! Look at the pelican!"
A high-pitched, joyous voice pulled me from my thoughts.
Running across the lush green lawn was Leo. He was four years old now, with a mop of unruly brown curls, chubby sun-kissed cheeks, and bright hazel eyes that sparkled with boundless curiosity. He wore bright yellow rain boots and denim overalls, clutching a wooden toy boat I had carved for him out of cedar driftwood.
He threw himself into my legs, wrapping his sturdy little arms around my knees.
"Did you see him dive, Mark? He went *whoosh* right into the water!"
I laughed, scooping him up into the air and setting him on my shoulders. "I saw him, buddy. He’s hunting for breakfast. Just like you ought to be doing before Grandma catches you running outside barefoot."
"I have my boots on!" Leo giggled, kicking his heels against my chest. "Boots count as shoes!"
"Nice try, kiddo."
We walked up the porch steps where Grandma sat in her favorite high-backed wicker rocker. She looked ten years younger. Her silver hair was neatly pinned, her cheeks were flushed with healthy color, and her hands moved smoothly across a sketch pad where she was watercoloring the tidal creek.
"Breakfast is on the table, boys," she said, looking over her glasses with eyes full of warmth. "Blueberry pancakes and fresh sausage."
"Pancakes!" Leo shouted, scrambling down from my shoulders and darting through the screen door like a little rocket.
I leaned against the porch railing, looking out over the creek where a pair of white egrets stepped gracefully through the shallows.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an email notification from the state victim services portal. Once a year, the system sent automated updates regarding the status of incarcerated felons.
I opened it briefly.
*Inmate Vance, Richard: Custody Level: Maximum Security. Facility: Union Correctional Institution. Parole Eligibility: None.*
*Inmate Holloway, Vanessa: Custody Level: Close Custody. Facility: Lowell Correctional Institution. Parole Eligibility: 2054.*
I didn't feel anger. I didn't feel hatred. I felt nothing at all. They were ghosts, buried alive in tombs of their own making.
I tapped the delete button, clearing the notification from my screen forever.
"Marky?" Grandma’s soft voice called from the doorway. "Come inside, sweetheart. Your coffee’s getting cold."
I turned around and looked through the screen door. Inside the bright, sun-drenched kitchen, Leo was sitting in his booster seat, with a giant smear of maple syrup across his chin, laughing hysterically as Aunt Sarah pretended to steal his pancake with a fork. Grandma was pouring dark roast coffee into my favorite ceramic mug, humming an old hymn under her breath.
There was no glass here. There were no cameras. There was no fear.
May you like
There was only love, bought with courage, defended with blood, and blooming brightly under the warm southern sun.
"Coming, Grandma," I said, smiling as I pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth of our home.
