He’d texted me exactly twice since November.
Once to ask if I still had the password to the Netflix account I’d been paying for, and once to say, “Merry Christmas,” on December 26th.
But apparently the version of events Travis was telling people was that I’d abandoned him, moved out in the middle of the night, and was now ghosting him because I was being dramatic about some airport thing.
Some airport thing.
5 hours on a bench reduced to a footnote in Travis’s retelling of reality.
I asked Ben what kind of rough spot Travis was in.
Turns out it was a financial rough spot.
A big one.
The house had property taxes due.
Dad had always paid them on time.
Filed every year like clockwork.
When Travis and I moved in together, I’d handled them because, shocker, I handled everything.
But now I’d been gone for four months, and Travis apparently hadn’t paid the property taxes.
Hadn’t even opened the mail about them.
The county had sent notices.
Three of them.
There were penalties now, late fees.
The total was around $4,200 and climbing, and if it wasn’t paid by March 15th, the county could start proceedings to put a lien on the property.
I thanked Ben for calling and told him I’d figure it out on my end.
Then I hung up and sat at my kitchen table for about 15 minutes.
Just thinking.
Not panicking.
Thinking.
Here’s the thing.
That house was still half mine.
Dad left it to both of us.
And no matter how badly Travis had treated me, I wasn’t about to let my father’s house get seized over unpaid taxes because my brother was too irresponsible to open an envelope.
But I also wasn’t going to swoop in and save the day again.
That was the old Ryan.
The Ryan who covered every bill, fixed every problem, and got a thumbs-up emoji for his trouble.
I called a lawyer, a real estate attorney named Patrick Cullen, who Connor’s wife had used during a property dispute a few years back.
I told him the situation.
Co-owned house, one owner living there and neglecting responsibilities, the other owner wanting a clean resolution.
Patrick was straightforward.
He said I had a few options, but the cleanest one was a partition action, basically forcing the sale of the property since the co-owners couldn’t agree on its management.
“What does that look like?” I asked.
“We file the action. The court orders the house sold. Proceeds are split according to ownership. In your case, 50/50. If your brother wants to keep the house, he has the option to buy out your share at fair market value. Either way, you get your half.”
“How much is the house worth?”
“Given the neighborhood, the lot size, and the current market, I’d estimate somewhere around $260,000, maybe $270,000. A formal appraisal would pin it down. Your share would be roughly $130,000.”
$130,000.
My dad’s house, the one I’d maintained and cared for, the one I’d poured sweat and money into while Travis played house with Britney, was going to give me a clean break and a financial cushion that could change my life.
I told Patrick to move forward.
Now, I want to be clear about something.
This wasn’t revenge.
Not yet.
This was self-preservation.
I wasn’t trying to hurt Travis.
I was trying to stop letting him hurt me.
There’s a difference.
And it took me 30 years to learn it.
Patrick filed the paperwork in late February.
Travis was served on a Thursday afternoon.
I know this because he called me 14 times between 4 and 6 that evening.
I let every single call go to voicemail.
He left three messages.
The first one was confused.
“Ryan, I just got some papers from a lawyer. What is this?”
The second one was angry.
“Are you seriously trying to sell Dad’s house? What is wrong with you?”
The third one was Travis at his finest.
“Mom is going to hear about this. You know that, right? She’s going to be so upset.”
There it was.