His report came in the next morning.
A 68-page document listing every code violation, every unreported renovation, every financial discrepancy linked to the property.
Apparently, Dad had rented out the guest house to one of his poker buddies for cash.
Hadn’t told me.
Hadn’t reported it.
Just pocketed the money and called it a favor.
On my property.
With my name on the liability line.
That’s when the gears really started turning.
I drafted the next email carefully.
Sent it to Erica with a single line.
“Trigger the eviction clause. Quietly.”
But even then, I wasn’t cruel.
I gave them 30 days.
More than enough time to get their affairs in order, to move, to downsize, to realize that maybe, just maybe, calling me the dumb one at the dinner table wasn’t worth losing the roof over their heads.
Still, I didn’t tell them directly.
Not yet.
Instead, I went about my life.
Business meetings.
Gym sessions.
Dinner with friends.
I even visited Megan’s old campus just for fun.
Walked past the buildings she used to brag about.
Thought about all the time she called me unqualified for not having walked those same halls.
Then, on day 12, I got the email from Mom.
The subject line just said:
“Nathan.”
The body was short.
No hi.
No greeting.
Just:
“We got the notice. I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”
I stared at it for a while.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, and then I wrote the one sentence they’d never expected.
“Because you’ve mistaken my kindness for stupidity, and I’m not dumb enough to let that slide anymore.”
I hit send.
The response came within an hour.
Not from Mom.
From Dad.
I don’t know what I expected.
Maybe an apology.
A reluctant admission that he’d crossed a line.
Instead, it was a wall of deflection.
He started with:
“This is overreacting.”