Diane came back from the kitchen.
She’d composed herself, which in Diane’s case meant she’d switched from shock to strategic.
“I want to speak to Margaret Solis,” she said. “There may be grounds to contest this sale. Pop never intended for that property to leave the family.”
“Pop intended for it to go to me. He wrote it in his will. Margaret Solis drafted the will, handled the probate, and handled the sale. She’ll tell you the same thing she told you 14 months ago. You have no standing.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“You will, and you’ll get the same answer.”
Diane’s jaw tightened.
“Your mother would be ashamed of you.”
I stood up slowly.
Not because I was being dramatic, but because I needed a second to let that one land without it knocking me sideways.
My mother.
She went there.
“My mother,” I said quietly, “would be ashamed that her sister turned her father’s cabin into a custody battle and her son into a landlord. But she’s not here to say that, so I guess we’ll never know.”
I thanked Diane for dinner, told Megan it was nice to meet her because it genuinely wasn’t her fault she’d walked into this, and I left.
I sat in my truck for a while, sensing a pattern.
Me, too.
Lena was waiting up when I got home.
She took one look at me and poured two glasses of bourbon without asking.
“How’d it go?”
“About how you’d expect. Diane cried. Diane threatened to call the attorney.”
“So, about how you’d expect.”
I told her everything.
She listened.
When I got to the part about my mother, she put her hand on my arm and didn’t say anything, which was exactly right.
The fallout unfolded over the next few weeks like a slow-motion car wreck where nobody dies but everyone’s insurance goes up.
Diane called Margaret Solis.
Margaret, bless her, took the call and spent exactly 12 minutes explaining that the sale was final, the deed was transferred, there were no grounds for contest, and if Diane wanted a second opinion, she was welcome to consult any attorney she liked.
Diane apparently asked Margaret if there was a moral dimension to this.
Margaret said, “I’m a real estate attorney, Diane, not a philosopher.”
Travis got the demand letter from Derek Voss’s attorney.
Two weeks later, Voss was seeking compensation for medical bills, the fractured ribs, and dislocated shoulder from the dock fall.
The amount wasn’t enormous, but it was enough to ruin Travis’s year.
Diane started making noise about paying it, then got the actual number and went quiet.
Travis, who had been collecting $200 weekends, was now staring at a five-figure demand.
The irony was almost poetic.
If poetry could be measured in Venmo transactions.
Dad called me three times before I picked up.
The first two times, I let it ring.
Not out of spite.
Out of self-preservation.
I needed to have the conversation on my terms.
When I was ready, not when his guilt and Diane’s pressure pushed him to the phone.
When I finally answered, he said, “Can we talk?”
“Just us.”
We met at a diner halfway between our places.
Neutral ground.
Dad ordered coffee and didn’t touch it.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
I waited.
“I should have had your back from the beginning. The will was clear, and Pop knew what he was doing. And I let Diane push me into undermining you because it was easier than pushing back.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You did.”
He flinched a little.
“I know this doesn’t fix anything.”