It wasn’t about the flag.
It was about what it meant to me.
I’d hung it out front the day I moved in—not to make a statement, just to feel a little more like home.
New street. New neighbors. New everything.
I was the outsider.
Everyone knew it.
So when I woke up one morning and saw the empty spot where my flag had been, my heart sank.
Someone had taken it.
I stood there for a moment, wondering what I had done to offend someone. Maybe they didn’t like me. Maybe they didn’t like what the flag represented.
Then I noticed something on my doorstep.
A folded $20 bill.
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