When my father divided our inheritance, my brother got the family home, and I was left with my grandpa’s cabin. My brother mocked me for it, saying I got nothing but memories and rot. I thought he was right — until I discovered what Grandpa had hidden beneath the floorboards.
The decision was made at the kitchen table.
Dad cleared his throat, hands folded.
“I don’t want this tearing you two apart later, so we’re doing this now.”
Chris leaned back in his chair.
“Doing what?”
There was a pause.
The kind that made my stomach knot.
“The house goes to you.” Dad nodded toward my brother.
“You’ve got kids. You need the space.”
Chris didn’t argue.
He just nodded once and smiled.
Then Dad turned to me.
“And you’ll get your grandfather’s cabin.”
I blinked. “The hunting shack?”
Dad hesitated. “You’re still studying.
You don’t need much.”
Chris let out a short laugh.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Dad added gently, “And besides, your grandfather would’ve wanted it that way.”
That silenced everyone.
The thing is, I didn’t know how to feel about it yet.
Do you ever have one of those moments where you know you should speak up, but the words just won’t come?
That was me, sitting there like an idiot while my future got parceled out across a worn kitchen table.
Dad pushed his chair back. “That’s settled then.”
Was it? I wasn’t sure, but I nodded anyway.
The confrontation happened in the driveway.
I was already halfway to my car when Chris called out.
“So that’s it.
You and Grandpa’s little hunting shack.”
I turned.
He leaned against his truck, arms crossed, shaking his head like he found the whole thing amusing.
“All those years,” he added. “All that time you spent out there with him.”
I didn’t answer.
What was I supposed to say?
That I’d loved those weekends? That they’d meant something?
He snorted.
I felt my face heat.
“That’s not fair.”
He gestured toward the house behind us.
The one we grew up in, with the good memories and the bad ones, all knotted together like Christmas lights you can’t quite untangle.
“This is what fair looks like,” he said. “You can have the memories, and rot.
I’ll take the walls.”
He got into his truck without waiting for a response and pulled out of the driveway, gravel spitting behind him.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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