My brother sold our boyhood house to me quickly and cheaply three years after our father’s death. Two days after the transaction, I discovered the home was irreparably damaged, and he knew. He broke my trust.
He was punished by Karma. When my brother and I buried Dad, the October sky reflected my anguish. Gray and gloomy, it threatened to rain.
Theo stood behind me at the graveyard in a clean black suit. My hands trembled as I dropped a handful of earth onto the mahogany coffin below. “He’s finally at peace,” I muttered, crying.
Theo nodded, checking his phone. Elton, our father, was my universe. Mom died when I was 12, leaving the three of us in that gorgeous two-story Craftsman home on Greenfork Street.
Dad worked extra shifts in the factory to feed us, and I stayed when Theo went to college. I painted Dad’s toenails when arthritis crippled him. I drove him to chemo.
I held his hand throughout those last, terrible weeks. The will reading was a week later. Dad’s lawyer, Mr.
Hargrove, cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. Our childhood house, where Dad taught me to ride a bike in the backyard and we carved pumpkins every Halloween, went to Theo. “But I thought—” I began.
“The house goes to Theo,” Mr. Hargrove reiterated. “Lila has a $3,000 savings account.”
Theo was expressionless.
No thankfulness, no surprise. Nothing. I was doing dishes when he cornered me in the kitchen that night.
I need you gone by Sunday.”
I froze my hands on plates. “What?”
“You heard me. Need room to ponder.
To understand.”
Yes, Theo, this is my home. I’ve been here 18 years. I took care of Dad…”
“And now he’s gone,” Theo snarled, his gray eyes flaring.
The home is mine. Now I set the rules.”
Moving out was like losing Dad again. I leased a small apartment above Mrs.
Nora’s bakery with flimsy walls and a noisy heater. But I planned. Dad always believed I inherited his resolve, and Theo was about to find out.
I worked mornings at the cafe, afternoons at the grocery store, and weekends cleaning offices. Every cent was saved. Every credit card payment was timely.
I survived on Mrs. Nora’s ramen and day-old cakes. Theo’s text three years later flashed up my shattered phone screen: “How about the house?
Sell it to you. 30% off, fast sale.”
I contacted him immediately after feeling cold. “Why now?”
I’m relocating to Denver.
A employment offer. Must sell fast.”
Something seemed odd, yet that home pulled me in. “I want to see it first.”
Of course.
Tomorrow at three.”
Stepping up the ancient stone path seemed like going back in time. Dad and I planted an oak tree when I was eight, and its branches now touch the second-story windows. Theo waited on the doorstep with jingling keys.
It looks decent, right? said, unlocking the front door. It looked nice.
The bronze fireplace screen was polished, the hardwood floors sparkled, and the walls were light white. Tears rolled when I stroked Dad’s banister. “You worked.”
Just maintenance.
Nothing major.”
We explored every room. Dad taught me how to prepare his pancakes in this kitchen. Sunday movie night in the living room.
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