Then Brianna called.
“I’m not saying you should just give it to me,” she said. “But maybe you could sell it and split the money. You already have somewhere to live.”
Somewhere to live.
She meant my studio apartment.
Technically, she wasn’t wrong.
Then the requests became pressure.
The pressure became accusations.
For nearly three weeks, my phone rarely stopped.
“Family means sharing.”
“Stop being selfish.”
“Brianna is starting a new life.”
“She needs it more.”
“Grandma would be disappointed in you.”
That last one almost made me laugh.
Grandma Margaret had deliberately left the house to me.
This was also the woman who had once told me, only half joking, “Your parents would sell your shadow if Brianna decided she needed the money.”
Brianna’s calls became more emotional.
She and her newest boyfriend, Trevor, were apparently serious. They wanted a house. Austin prices were too high. She said it wasn’t fair that I had been “handed” a home while she was being forced to struggle.
Her version of struggling involved living in an expensive apartment that Mom and Dad helped pay for.
Then the extended family became involved.
Aunt Denise.
Uncle Malcolm.
Cousins I hadn’t heard from in years.
Everyone suddenly had an opinion about fairness.
“Think about the whole family.”
“Brianna has always been fragile.”
“You’re the strong one.”
“Don’t let property destroy your family.”
The messages sounded so similar I started wondering whether Mom had distributed talking points.
Then, on the Thursday before a scheduled meeting in Camille Lawson’s office, Dad sent the ultimatum.
“Either you agree to sell the house and split the proceeds, or you are no longer welcome in this family. Your choice.”
I stared at it for almost an hour.
No longer welcome.
The words were supposed to frighten me.
Instead, they forced me to admit something I had avoided saying out loud.
I had never felt especially welcome.
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
“Jasmine, this is Adrien Mercer. I heard you may be considering options for a property in East Austin. If selling is one of them, I’d be interested in talking.”
I read it twice.
Adrien Mercer wasn’t a stranger.
We had been study partners in college before our lives went in completely different directions. I became an accountant. He eventually founded Northstar Digital Systems.
Now he was my CEO.
And Brianna’s.
I looked back at Dad’s ultimatum.
Then at Adrien’s message.
For the first time in three weeks, I smiled.
They wanted me to sell the house.
Fine.
They had never specified who I was allowed to sell it to.
“Yes,” I wrote back. “We can talk. But for now, this stays confidential.”
His response came almost immediately.
“Understood. I can meet tonight.”
Then another message.
“I remember how they treated you back in college. This time, you make the decision.”
That evening, for the first time since Grandma’s will had been read, I stopped reacting to my family.
I started making choices.
Four days later, my family gathered in Camille Lawson’s conference room.
Mom and Dad sat opposite me.
Brianna sat between them with tissues already in her hand.
Aunt Denise had come for moral support.
And my parents had brought a real estate agent.
Her name was Natalie Brooks. She wore a bright red blazer and carried herself like someone who expected to leave with a signed listing agreement.
Before Camille could properly begin, Dad spoke.
“We’ve already found an agent.”
He gestured toward Natalie.
“She has interested buyers. Cash offers.”
Camille adjusted her glasses.
“That’s premature.”
Mom leaned forward.
“We’re trying to settle this as a family.”
“The will is already settled,” I said.
Dad’s expression hardened.
“Wills can be contested.”
“For what reason?” Camille asked.
“Undue influence. Mental capacity. We’ve spoken with attorneys.”
Brianna began crying with almost perfect timing.
“I can’t believe you’re making us do this, Jasmine.”
I looked at her.
“Making you do what?”