My name is Llaya Whitaker Brooks. Our house sits on Myrtle Street in Beacon Hill, a narrow lane with gas lamps and stubborn ivy. I bought the place at twenty-nine after years of tuna sandwiches and second jobs. The mortgage was mine. The sweat was mine. The vision was mine. Daniel moved in later, with his tailored suits and a vintage road bike he parked in the hallway like a sculpture. He liked to say he brought “modern energy” to my old house.