I stood in silence. You would think I would be jumping for joy or shouting or—something. The last six months deserved at least that. I stared across the metal fence. I wasn’t even sure this was the right place. That’s exactly what I needed, to wander up to some stranger’s door, disheveled and exhausted, and find out that after traveling four thousand miles I was at the wrong house. There had to be some way to know for sure. I scanned the grounds for anything that could be a sign I was where I belonged . . . and there it was.

Off to the right, the setting sun cast a shadow of familiarity my direction. I opened the gate and walked towards the large stone cross. I had seen it before. Six months ago. In her Bible. As I packed her things through the tears of losing the only one who had ever loved me, I found a picture of this cross, right next to the note my grandmother left me to find if she ever left me. She knew even before I did that with all the tragedy in my life, I would eventually go on a journey looking for home.

And she had left me instructions.

I pulled the worn paper from my pocket and read it again.

“You will find yourself at the foot of the cross. Then you know you are home.”

I looked at the cross and suddenly hit my knees—tears fell as I saw it.

My last name.