She stared at me, her mouth open in absolute shock.

“Sarah, please!” she cried. “How can you be so cruel?”

I didn’t answer. I looked down at the pile of boxes by the curb.

And there, sitting on top of an open box of dirty pots and pans, was my mother’s blue ceramic teapot.

I stepped past Linda. I walked to the box, reached down, and picked up the teapot.

“That’s my teapot!” Linda shrieked behind me. “You can’t take that!”

I turned back to look at her 1 last time.

“It was Mom’s,” I said. “And she gave it to me.”

Linda lunged forward to grab it, but the deputy stepped between us.

“Ma’am,” the deputy said to Linda, his voice stern. “Step back. Do not touch her.”

I walked back to my Chevy, holding the blue ceramic teapot close to my chest.

I got in, put the teapot on the passenger seat, and drove away. In my rearview mirror, I saw Linda sink back down onto her plastic crate, completely alone on the wet grass, surrounded by her ruined furniture.

Greg and Linda had to move into a cheap, run-down motel on the edge of town. Their expensive furniture was ruined by the rain, and their pontoon boat was repossessed by the bank 1 week later. They had nothing left.

I went to the Lansing credit union and took out a small, low-interest loan to fix my roof. The payments are small, and I can afford them easily by being careful with my utility bills.

Yesterday, the roofers finished their work. The ceiling in my hallway is dry now, patched and painted white.

This morning, the sun was shining through my kitchen window.

I sat at my table, looking out at the green grass. The air smelled of clean rain.

I poured boiling water into my mother’s blue ceramic teapot. The steam rose, warm and smelling of chamomile.

My old Chevy is still parked in the driveway, and my budget is tight. But the house is dry, and the tea is hot.

I took a sip, and for the first time in 3 years, I felt completely at peace.