A single vine of young ivy stretches up the old brick and into freshly painted baby blue shutters, where it has begun to weave itself between the slats. Under aged trees, a pair of crisp white lawn chairs sits in the grass surrounded by potted plants.
The building that once served as a dusty, dank storage space for decades-old adoption records and dated computers is beginning to look like something Mariela Weaber hasn’t seen in years — a home. More important, it’s beginning to feel like one to her.
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