Home — But Not Home
The taxi rolled through the quiet Dallas suburbs. My house looked familiar and foreign all at once.
Mail piled on the porch. Dirty dishes, pizza boxes, beer cans.
They’d been partying while I was fighting for my life.
My office was now a storage room.
Family photos lay face-down under dust.
Forty-seven seconds my heart had stopped—and somehow, that was all it took for them to erase me.
I opened my safe, pulled out my will. The first line read:
“To my beloved wife, Susan Thompson, and my son, Scott Thompson…”
Beloved.
I laughed bitterly.
There was no love left—only habit.
