When my father decided to divide our inheritance early, he called my brother and me to the kitchen table. He gave Chris the family home, explaining that he had children and needed the space. Then he told me I would receive Grandpa’s old cabin in the woods. My brother laughed, calling it a decaying shack. I didn’t argue, though something about the decision felt heavier than it appeared.
That cabin had once been my refuge. Growing up, while my brother thrived on noise and attention, I found comfort in quiet moments with Grandpa. He read by lantern light, listened patiently, and taught me that some places help you breathe. After he died, I avoided the cabin, burying the memories. So when I finally returned, I expected little more than rot and dust.