"Not gone," I said, crouching beside her. "Just replaced by people who remember what decency looks like."
She smiled. "Does that mean we can keep it?"
I nodded. "It means they're naming it."
Her eyes widened. "Naming it?"
"They're putting it on record as a permanent ADA landmark, county-approved."
"The hope bed?"
"They said it'll be protected for future residents who want to build therapy gardens of their own."
For a second, she didn't speak. Then she whispered, "I thought she'd take everything."
"She tried," I said softly. "But she forgot who she was up against."
A car slowed in front of the house. It wasn't the patrol cart this time. It was a silver sedan with the county seal on the door. Inspector Holland stepped out, clipboard in hand. But this time, he didn't look like an investigator. He looked like someone delivering closure.
"Mr. Ellison," he said, shaking my hand. "Thought you should know the official report is finalized. HOA authority has been formally restricted to residential lots only. No jurisdiction on easements. No discretionary fines without county verification."
Then he turned toward the flower bed. "Your daughter's design inspired a new state-level review guideline. We're calling it an accessibility inclusion amendment. You'd be surprised how many cases like this we've missed."