My mother, Linda, stood outside in her slippers and cardigan, mascara smeared down her cheeks. When she called me, her voice was shaking. “Ethan… you need to come right now. He changed the locks.”
I was in San Jose. Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the driveway, tires crunching gravel. Daniel stood on the porch with his arms crossed, keys dangling in his hand like he owned everything. My sister Claire stood behind him, pale but stubborn, refusing to meet my eyes.
The sight hit me hard.
Months earlier, I had given my parents a navy envelope at their anniversary dinner. Inside were the documents for the oceanfront cottage on Cypress Point. It wasn’t temporary. It wasn’t shared. It was theirs. After a lifetime of sacrifice—my father working endless hours and my mother stretching every dollar—I wanted them to finally have peace.
Now their suitcases sat on the porch like they’d been thrown out.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
Daniel smirked. “Good, you’re here. We need to clear this up.”
My father looked smaller than I had ever seen him. “He says he has a right to be here,” he muttered.
“A right?” I snapped. “On what basis?”
