I dove into spreadsheets and strategy meetings, letting professional problems crowd out family drama.
But my phone buzzed constantly with messages. I continued ignoring.
Mom asking me to reconsider. Lillian sending passive-aggressive memes about family loyalty. Even a voicemail from Dad’s sister, Aunt Grace, whom I barely knew, telling me I should be ashamed.
That evening, I came home to find my mailbox vandalized.
Someone had spray-painted selfish across it in red letters.
The neighbor security camera caught footage of Kenneth’s car parked on my street around 3:00 a.m., though you couldn’t see who’d done the actual vandalism.
I filed a police report.
The officer taking my statement was sympathetic, but realistic about the chances of proving anything.
“Family disputes get messy,” he said. “Document everything, just in case it escalates.”
The word escalate sent a chill through me.
What would escalation look like? Would they try to hurt my dogs, damage my property further?
I installed security cameras that night, mounting them on every corner of the house.
Tuesday brought the weekly band practice, and I’d never been more grateful for the noise.
The drummer, a guy named Marcus who worked construction during the day, noticed the spray-painted mailbox as they were setting up.
“That’s messed up,” he said, frowning. “You want us to stick around after practice? Make sure nobody comes back?”
The offer touched me more than it should have.
“Thanks, but I’ve got cameras now. Should be fine.”
“Well, the offer stands. Nobody messes with our practice space.”
Wednesday afternoon, Lillian posted on Facebook a long emotional screed about family betrayal and how some people value material things over relationships.
She didn’t name me directly, but the subtext was obvious.
Within an hour, dozens of comments appeared from relatives and family friends, most taking her side without knowing the full story.
My cousin Andrea, who I’d always gotten along with, commented, “So sorry you’re going through this. Family should always come first.”
I closed the app and didn’t reopen it.
Thursday morning brought certified mail.
A letter from Kenneth and Lillian’s attorney threatening to sue me for emotional distress and financial damages resulting from a breach of verbal agreement.
Dexter laughed when I forwarded him a photo of the letter.
“There was no verbal agreement, and you can’t sue someone for emotional distress because they wouldn’t give you their house,” he said. “This is a scare tactic. Ignore it.”
“What if they actually file?”
“Then we counter sue for harassment and win easily. Stop worrying.”
But I did worry.
Late at night, when the house was quiet except for the dog snoring and the occasional sound of Roderdrick shifting in his coupe, I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake.
Not about keeping my house. That had been right and necessary. But about the cost of standing firm.
I’d lost my entire family over this.
Was the house worth it?
Then I’d remember Kenneth’s laugh when Dad announced they’d be moving in. Lillian’s casual dismissal of my life as less important than hers. Mom’s cookies left on the table like a guilt bomb.
Dad’s signature on those papers, so ready to give away something that belonged to me.