The dinner table fell silent when I said I’d sold the cabin. Six people, one sentence, and suddenly the room had texture. You could feel the words press against everyone’s skin. Diane’s fork clattered onto her plate.
My father stopped mid-chew. Travis, who’d been leaning back with a beer in his hand, slowly set it down like it had turned to lead. “What did you say? ” Diane asked, her voice flat, her smile frozen somewhere between pleasant and furious.
“I sold the cabin,” I said again. “The closing was five weeks ago. It belongs to a retired school teacher named Glenn Whitaker now. It’s done.
”
I’d waited months for this moment. And for a few seconds, all I felt was calm. My grandfather built that A-frame cabin on Blackwell Lake in 1986. Four point two acres of waterfront, two bedrooms, a wood stove that could heat the whole place in January, and a dock he rebuilt twice because the ice kept winning.
He built it with his own hands, rafter by rafter, every summer of my childhood spent at his side while he taught me the difference between good work and work you could be proud of. Pop died fourteen months ago. Pancreatic cancer, fast and brutal. He was diagnosed in March and gone by June.
My mother had died the same way eight years earlier, and watching him go felt like the universe running a repeat of its cruelest joke. His will was simple. The house in town went to be sold, split between my aunt Diane and my dad Roy, who inherited my mother’s share. The savings went the same way.
But the cabin and the four point two acres went to me. Specifically, deliberately, with legal language that his attorney later said was unusually pointed for a man who claimed he didn’t trust lawyers. I wasn’t surprised. I’d spent every summer of my life at that cabin.
I helped Pop replace the roof when I was sixteen. I dug the new septic line with him at nineteen. I knew every pipe, every creaking floorboard, every window that stuck in August humidity. That cabin was more mine than anything I’d ever legally owned.
Diane was less pleased. At the reading of the will she looked at Margaret Solis, the estate attorney, and said, “I’m sure Dad meant for us all to share it. He always said family came first. ”
Margaret, who was seventy-one and had zero patience for that kind of subtle manipulation, said, “He was quite specific, Diane.
The property goes to Cody outright. ”
Diane smiled anyway. That smile was her signature move — a weapon disguised as politeness. My father Roy is a decent man who has spent his entire adult life avoiding conflict the way other people avoid gluten.
Instinctively, thoroughly, and with a vague sense that it might kill him. After my mother died, he drifted. Diane became his anchor, not because she was the healthiest connection but because she was the loudest one. She flowed into every empty space he left open, the way water finds the cracks in a dam.
So when Diane started her slow campaign to get access to the cabin, Dad didn’t push back. He nodded. He told me it wouldn’t hurt to let Travis use it sometimes. I agreed, reluctantly.
Travis is Diane’s son. Twenty-eight years old, charming in short bursts, a disaster over any sustained period. Nine jobs in four years, none of which were ever his fault. He plays a lot of golf for someone who can’t consistently make rent.
His first trip to the cabin left beer cans on the porch, an unlocked back door, and a wood stove left open so the whole place smelled like wet ash for a week. I cleaned it up and said nothing. The second time he brought four friends and someone cracked the dock railing. Nobody told me.
I found it in October when I went up to winterize, fixed it myself, and replaced the lock. I texted Travis a heads-up, asking him to check with me before coming up next time. He replied with a thumbs-up emoji. Two months later, I drove up for a long weekend and found fresh tire tracks in the snow.
Inside, the heat was cranked to eighty. Dishes in the sink. A sleeping bag on the couch smelled like cheap cologne and bad choices. I called my dad.
He admitted, almost apologetically, that he’d given Travis the new key. “Diane asked,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d mind. ”
I changed the lock again.
This time, Dad didn’t get a copy. Families like mine don’t do endings, though. They do slow escalations disguised as reasonableness. Diane started making comments at every gathering.
“It’s a shame that cabin just sits empty. Pop would have wanted it to be a family place. ” She’d smile. I’d smile.
We both knew what was happening. Then, in early September while doing my fall maintenance, I pulled open the junk drawer in the kitchen looking for a zip tie and found a printed screenshot of a Venmo payment. Two hundred dollars from someone named Jake Molina to Travis, with the memo “cabin weekend August 17th to 19th. ”
Travis had been renting out my cabin.
My grandfather’s cabin. The one he built with red oak lintels and three coats of marine varnish and thirty years of knowing exactly where every joist sat. Travis had been handing keys to strangers and pocketing the cash like it was his personal Airbnb side hustle. I put the screenshot back in the drawer.
I photographed it with my phone. Then I sat on the porch with a cup of coffee and watched the lake for a long time, because I’ve learned that decisions made in anger are almost never the ones you want to live with. But I was angry. I didn’t confront Travis right away.
Calling him would have turned into a shouting match, and shouting matches with Travis always end the same way — he plays dumb, Diane gets involved, Dad tries to mediate, and somehow I end up being the unreasonable one for wanting boundaries on my own property. So I did what I do for a living. I gathered information. In the second bedroom closet I found a bag of golf tees that weren’t mine, a phone charger still plugged into the wall, and a sticky note on the nightstand that read “Wi-Fi Lake Cabin 2023.
” He’d set up internet access in my cabin with a password, like a hotel. I cross-referenced the Venmo date against my own calendar. August 17th through the 19th, I’d been at a job site in Harrisburg all week. Travis knew my schedule because Dad told Diane everything, and Diane told Travis everything.
They ran an inefficient intelligence agency staffed by people who thought they were being subtle. Over the next two weeks I did some quiet asking around. There’s a bait shop at the south end of the lake run by a man named Carl, who’s been there since the Clinton administration and knows every vehicle that comes down that road. I bought lures I didn’t need and asked if he’d noticed traffic up by my place over the summer.
“Oh yeah,” Carl said, not even looking up from his register. “Your cousin’s been bringing folks up pretty regular. Every couple weekends, looks like. Different trucks each time.
”
I felt that land in my chest like a stone. “One of the groups was out on the dock real late,” Carl added, scratching his jaw. “Maybe three weeks back. Sounded like they’d had a few.
I could hear them from my porch, and I’m a quarter mile down. ”
That night I sat at my kitchen table and told my girlfriend Lena everything. She listened without interrupting, which is one of the things I love most about her. “What are you going to do?
” she asked. “I don’t know yet. ”
The obvious move was to confront Travis. Demand he stop.
Threaten legal action. But obvious moves give people time to reposition. Travis would deny it or minimize it. Diane would frame me as overreacting.
Dad would mumble something about keeping the peace. And two months later, Travis would be right back at it. I was still figuring out my approach when I got the phone call that changed everything. Tuesday morning, mid-September.
I was at my desk reviewing a boundary survey when my phone rang. Local number, unrecognized. “Is this Cody Harmon? ”
“Speaking.
”
“My name is Patricia Egan. I’m an attorney. I represent a client named Derek Voss. Does that name mean anything to you?
”
It didn’t. “Mr. Voss was a guest at a lakeside property on Blackwell Lake the weekend of August 3rd. He sustained an injury on the dock.
A railing gave way and he fell approximately six feet onto rocks below the waterline. He fractured two ribs and dislocated his shoulder. ”
I sat up so fast my chair rolled back into the filing cabinet. “He was told the property belonged to a Travis Harmon,” she continued.
“But our title search shows the owner is Cody Harmon. That’s you. ”
My mind raced to the dock railing. The one Travis’s friends had cracked.
The one I’d repaired myself in October. But this injury happened in August — before my repair, and Travis knew the railing was damaged. He’d brought people out to my property anyway and done nothing about it. “Ma’am,” I said carefully, “how did Mr.
Voss come to be at that property? ”
“He paid your cousin for a weekend stay. He has the Venmo receipt. ”
Of course he did.
I told her the truth. I didn’t authorize anyone to rent that property. Travis isn’t the owner. He didn’t have my permission to host guests or collect money.
He was operating entirely on his own. There was a pause. “Can you document that? ”
“Yes.
”
“Mr. Harmon, I’m going to suggest we schedule a conversation. This may change the direction of my client’s claim. ”
After we hung up, I sat at my desk for a long time.
I’m a civil engineer. I understand liability. And I understood that Travis hadn’t just disrespected my property — he’d created legal exposure that could cost me everything. My savings.
My credit. Potentially the cabin itself. I called Margaret Solis that afternoon. She was Pop’s estate attorney, the only lawyer I trusted to be direct with me.
“Cody, listen carefully,” she said. “Document everything. Every text, every photo, every conversation. And you need to seriously consider your options regarding that property.
Right now that cabin is an asset. But if Derek Voss files suit and a court finds you liable as the owner, it becomes a liability. A big one. ”
I asked what she meant by options.
“You need to decide what that property is worth to you emotionally versus financially. And make a clear-eyed decision. ”
I called her back the next morning. “Tell me about selling.
”
Margaret connected me with Don Frazier, a real estate appraiser who specialized in rural and lakefront parcels. Don drove out to Blackwell Lake, walked the property, inspected the cabin, and came back with a number higher than I expected. Enough for a real down payment on my own land someday. “The lake frontage is the value driver,” Don told me.
“The cabin’s in decent shape for its age, but it’s the water access and the acreage people pay for. ”
I didn’t want to list it publicly. No sign on the road. No for-sale notice where Diane could drive past and see it.
Don understood. He had a client, he said. A retired school teacher named Glenn Whitaker from Garfield, two towns over. Quiet guy.
Fly fisherman. No interest in development. Just wanted a place to sit on a dock and read. I met Glenn on a Saturday morning while mist was still coming off the lake.
Sixty-four years old, firm handshake, wearing the kind of flannel shirt that had actually been worn for work. He asked smart questions about the well, the septic, the roof age, whether the road got plowed in winter. Then he stood on the dock for a while and just watched the water. “Your grandfather built this?
” he asked. “From the ground up. ”
He nodded. “You can tell.
There’s intention in it. ”
I liked Glenn. More importantly, I trusted him. He wasn’t going to tear the cabin down and put up some glass-and-steel monstrosity.
He was going to fish and read books and let the place stay what it was. We agreed on a price two days later. Margaret handled the paperwork. I insisted on a clean closing, no contingencies, and a confidentiality clause.
While all this was happening, I played the part. Sunday dinners at Dad’s house. Polite responses to Diane’s texts about Thanksgiving planning. And when Travis messaged asking if he could borrow the cabin for a buddy’s bachelor party in November, I told him I’d think about it.
What I actually thought about was whether Travis had any idea how close he’d come to getting me sued into oblivion. I decided he probably didn’t, because that would require him to think about someone other than himself for thirty consecutive seconds. The Derek Voss situation resolved faster than I expected. Patricia Egan called me two weeks later.
I’d sent her everything — the Venmo screenshots, the text with Travis, the text with Dad confirming he’d given Travis the key without my permission, photos of the damaged railing before and after my repair, and a timeline proving I wasn’t even in the state during any of the rental weekends. “Mr. Harmon,” she said, “my client has decided not to pursue a claim against you. Based on the documentation, it’s clear your cousin was operating independently and without authorization.
We’ll be redirecting our demand to Travis Harmon directly. ”
I almost felt bad for Travis. Almost. Then I remembered the sleeping bag that smelled like cologne and bad decisions, and the feeling passed.
The closing happened on Wednesday, October 9th. I sat in Margaret’s office, signed the papers, and watched the deed transfer to Glenn Whitaker. When it was done, I sat in my truck in the parking lot for about ten minutes doing nothing. Some things you need to sit with alone.
That cabin was the last physical thing connecting me to Pop. Every summer morning when he handed me coffee that was mostly milk and said, “Come on, we got work to do. ” The porch where he taught me to read topographic maps, which is probably why I’m a surveyor in the first place. Every board and nail was a conversation I couldn’t have anymore.
I sold it because keeping it was going to destroy it. Not the building — the meaning. Three days after the closing, Diane called Dad. He called me right after, sounding more animated than he had in months.
“Great news,” he said. “Diane talked to Travis, and they’ve agreed to a family arrangement for the cabin. Travis will handle upkeep, and in exchange, he gets to use it regularly. Diane thinks this is the fairest approach for everyone.
”
I held the phone away from my face and looked at it like it had personally insulted me. “Dad,” I said slowly, “did anyone think to ask me about this? ”
“Well, Diane said she talked to you about it. ”
She hadn’t.
She’d made a comment three weeks ago about how nice it would be if we could all enjoy Pop’s place, and I’d said “Mm-hmm” while eating a dinner roll. Apparently that constituted agreement in Diane’s world. “Dad, I’ll think about it,” I said, which is my standard line when I need someone to stop talking without creating a confrontation. “That’s great, son.
Diane’s planning a family dinner next week to celebrate. She wants everyone together. ”
Celebrate. They were going to celebrate the distribution of my property — which I hadn’t agreed to, and which was no longer my property, because I’d sold it five weeks ago to a retired school teacher who was probably sitting on the dock right then reading a Larry McMurtry novel.
I told Dad I’d be there for dinner. Then I sat in my truck and considered my options. I could call Diane and tell her. Call Dad and explain.
Send a family group text and blow the whole thing up remotely. Or I could walk into that dinner, let them lay out their grand plan for my cabin that wasn’t my cabin anymore, and tell them face to face. When I told Lena, she said, “You’re not doing this to be cruel, right? ”
“No.
I’m doing this because they need to hear it from me in person. They need to see my face when I say it, so they can’t pretend later I was hiding something. ”
She studied me for a second. “Okay, but you’re not enjoying this even a little bit.
”
I thought about it. “Maybe a little bit. ”
The dinner was set for Saturday. Diane’s house, seven o’clock, pot roast.
I had a deed transfer in my glove compartment. I pulled into Diane’s driveway at 7:05. Not fashionably late — that’s not my style — but late enough to make sure everyone was already seated and settled before I walked in. I wanted a full table.
Diane’s house is exactly what you’d expect from someone who describes her aesthetic as “elegant but approachable. ” Cream-colored everything, decorative plates on the walls, a “Live Laugh Love” sign she swears she bought ironically. Travis’s Jeep was in the driveway next to Dad’s sedan, plus a third car I didn’t recognize. Probably Travis’s latest girlfriend, which he cycled through the way most people cycle through streaming services.
I walked in carrying a bottle of wine, because my mother raised me to bring something to a dinner party, even one that was about to go sideways. “Cody,” Diane called from the kitchen. She came out wiping her hands on a towel, smiling the way she always smiled — broad and warm and ever so slightly performative. “We were just about to start without you.
”
“Wouldn’t want that,” I said. Dad was already at the dining table, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. Travis was next to him, leaned back in his chair with a phone in one hand and a beer in the other. The woman I didn’t recognize sat across from him — blonde, polite smile, clearly not briefed on the family dynamics she’d walked into.
Travis introduced her as Megan. Dinner was pot roast. I’ll give Diane this: she can cook. We made small talk for the first twenty minutes.
Travis talked about a business opportunity he was exploring — which is what Travis calls every scheme that requires someone else’s money. Dad complimented the potatoes. Megan asked me about surveying, and seemed genuinely interested, which I appreciated, because most people’s eyes glaze over after the word topographic. Then Diane set her fork down, folded her hands like she was about to deliver a quarterly earnings report, and said, “I think this is a good time to talk about the cabin.
”
I took a sip of wine. “Sure. ”
“Travis and I have been talking, and Roy agrees. ” She glanced at Dad, who gave a small, uncomfortable nod.
“We think the fairest approach is to set up a family sharing arrangement. Travis has volunteered to take over maintenance, which I think is very generous of him. ”
Travis, to his credit, looked slightly embarrassed — though I suspected it was more about being praised in front of Megan than any actual humility. “We all love that cabin,” Diane continued.
“Pop built it for the family, and I think he’d want us to enjoy it together. So our proposal is that Travis handles the upkeep — mowing, winterizing, general repairs — and in exchange, the family can use it on a rotating schedule. ”
“And what does ‘the family’ mean in this arrangement? ” I asked.
“Well, Travis primarily, and me when I want a weekend away. And of course you, Cody, whenever you’d like. ”
“Whenever I’d like. In my own cabin.
How generous. ”
Dad shifted in his seat. “It seems fair, Cody. ”
I looked at him.
He looked away. Diane reached over and patted Travis’s arm. “Don’t worry, honey. His cabin will stay in the family.
You’ll get it eventually. ”
She said it casually, like she was promising him the last slice of pie. “You’ll get it eventually. ” Like the cabin was already earmarked for Travis and it was just a matter of waiting me out.
Dad nodded. Not a big nod — more of a head tilt — but it was there. He agreed. Or at least he didn’t disagree, which in Roy Harmon’s world amounts to the same thing.
My father had just silently co-signed the idea that my inheritance — the cabin my grandfather specifically left to me — would eventually pass to Travis. Like I was a temporary inconvenience in the family’s property planning. The table went quiet. Megan was eating potatoes and clearly wishing she’d stayed home.
I almost laughed. Genuinely, physically almost laughed. Because there’s a specific kind of absurdity that hits you when people make elaborate plans for something that no longer exists. It’s like watching someone carefully parallel park behind a car that’s already been towed.
I picked up my wine, took one more sip, and set it down. “That’s interesting,” I said. “Really, it is. I’ve just got a question, though.
”
Diane smiled. “Of course. ”
“Which one of you plans to tell the man I sold it to last month? ”
The silence that followed was the most complete I’ve ever experienced in a room with six people.
The kind of silence with texture. You could feel it pressing against your skin. Travis lowered his beer, slowly, like it had suddenly become very heavy. Dad actually looked at me — truly looked — for what felt like the first time in months.
Diane’s smile didn’t disappear. It froze. Her mouth stayed in the shape of pleasantness while her eyes did something entirely different. It was like watching a computer crash while the screensaver kept running.
“What did you say? ” she asked. “I sold the cabin. The closing was five weeks ago.
The property belongs to a man named Glenn Whitaker. It’s done. ”
Another silence. Megan put her fork down very quietly.
Travis leaned forward. “You’re kidding. ”
“I’m not. ”
“You can’t just — you can’t sell it without —”
He stopped.
Because even Travis could hear how that sentence was going to end, and he knew it wouldn’t help him. “Without what? ” I asked calmly. “Without your permission?
It was my property, Travis. Mine. Legally, fully, unambiguously mine. Pop left it to me.
The will was clear. Margaret Solis handled the sale. It’s recorded with the county. ”
Diane’s smile finally collapsed.
“Cody, that cabin has been in this family for almost forty years. ”
“It has. And now it’s in the hands of a retired school teacher who fly fishes and actually takes care of things he’s given access to. ”
“You had no right.
”
“I had every right. I had the deed. I had the title. I had every legal right that exists, and I exercised them.
”
Dad’s voice came from the other end of the table, quiet and cracked. “Cody, why didn’t you tell us? ”
I turned to him. This was the part I’d rehearsed least, because this was the part that actually hurt.
“Because you would have tried to talk me out of it, and you would have done it for Diane, not for me. Not because you thought keeping the cabin was the right thing. Because Diane would have made a scene and you would have caved to keep the peace, the way you always do. And I couldn’t let that happen.
Not this time. ”
Dad didn’t say anything. He looked down at his plate. Diane stood up.
Her chair scraped against the hardwood. “This is unacceptable. That property was meant to stay in the family, and you went behind everyone’s backs. ”
“No,” I said.
“I went behind your backs. There’s a difference. You’re not the family, Diane. You’re one member of it.
And you’ve been treating my inheritance like a shared resource since the day Pop died. ”
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Travis stared at me with an expression I’d never seen on his face before. Not anger, not exactly shock.
It was the look of someone who just realized the thing they’d been counting on was never actually theirs. The rest of that dinner lasted about four minutes. Diane started three sentences, finished none of them, then declared she needed a moment and went to the kitchen. We could hear her opening and closing cabinet doors with the kind of controlled force that says, “I want to slam these, but there’s company.
”
Travis finally found his voice. “Dude, you could have at least warned us. ”
“Travis, you were renting out my property to strangers without my knowledge and pocketing the money. Someone got hurt on my dock because you knew the railing was busted and didn’t bother to fix it or even tell me.
I had an attorney calling me about a potential lawsuit because of your side hustle. Warning you wasn’t high on my priority list. ”
Megan’s eyes went wide. She looked at Travis.
He didn’t look back. “That’s — that’s not what happened,” Travis said. But there was no conviction in it. It was reflex, the way you say “I’m fine” when you’re clearly not.
“It is what happened. I have the Venmo receipts. I have statements from Carl at the bait shop. I have the demand letter from Derek Voss’s attorney.
And I have texts from Dad confirming he gave you keys without my authorization. ”
I looked at Dad. “Twice. ”
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“Cody, I didn’t know about the rentals. I swear I didn’t. ”
“I believe you. But you knew I changed the locks for a reason, and you gave him access anyway, because Diane asked you to.
That’s the problem, Dad. You keep choosing the path of least resistance — and the path of least resistance always runs through me. ”
He didn’t argue. I think he knew I was right, which was somehow worse than if he’d pushed back.
Diane came back from the kitchen, composed enough to switch from shock to strategy. “I want to speak to Margaret Solis. 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,” I said. “He wrote it in his will. Margaret drafted the will, handled the probate, and handled the sale. She’ll tell you the same thing she told you fourteen 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 for drama, but because I needed a second to let that one land without 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.
I 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 twelve 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 asked if there was a moral dimension to all 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. Fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, medical bills. The amount wasn’t enormous, but it was enough to ruin Travis’s year. Diane made noise about paying it until she saw the actual number, then went quiet.
Travis, who had been collecting two-hundred-dollar 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 that 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 too long.
I should have had your back from the beginning. The will was clear, and Pop knew what he was doing. 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. But I want you to know I understand why you did what you did.
I’m not angry about the sale. I’m angry at myself. I’ve been angry at myself for a long time, Cody. Since your mother died.
I didn’t know how to be the parent you needed. Diane was there, and she was loud, and it was easier to go along with her than to figure out who I was supposed to be without Beth. ”
That hit harder than I expected. I sat with it for a minute.
“Dad, I’m not asking you to be perfect,” I said. “I’m asking you to stop treating my boundaries like suggestions. I’m asking you to stop giving my keys to people who don’t respect my property. I’m asking you to be on my side sometimes, even when it’s uncomfortable.
”
He nodded. “I can do that. ”
“Can you? ”
He met my eyes.
“I’m going to try. ”
It wasn’t a movie moment. He didn’t cry. I didn’t cry.
We just sat in a booth in a diner that smelled like burned coffee and said honest things to each other for the first time in years. It was small and imperfect. And it was enough. That was six months ago.
Diane and I don’t speak. She sends me a card at Christmas because she’s the kind of person who maintains appearances even when she’s furious, and I send one back because my mother raised me with manners. We’re polite at the rare family event we both attend, and that’s all we’ll ever be. I’m okay with that.
Travis settled with Derek Voss for an undisclosed amount that I’m told came partially from Diane’s savings. He didn’t apologize to me, and I didn’t expect him to. Last I heard, he’s working at a car dealership and doing okay. We’re not in contact.
Dad and I have dinner every couple of weeks. It’s slow. We’re rebuilding something that was neglected for a long time, and you don’t fix a foundation by throwing cement at it. You have to dig down, clear the cracks, and build it back right.
He’s trying. I can see it. Some days, that’s enough. Lena and I drove past the cabin last month.
We didn’t stop — it’s not mine to stop at — but we slowed down enough that I could see the dock. Glenn had rebuilt the railing. Cedar, from the looks of it. Sturdy.
The kind of work Pop would have approved of. I used the money from the sale to put a down payment on twelve acres about forty minutes north. Raw land, mostly pine and hardwood, with a creek running through the southeast corner. No cabin yet.
I’m designing one myself on evenings and weekends, because I’m a surveyor and a civil engineer, and if Pop taught me anything, it’s that the things worth having are the things you build with your own hands. I laid the first stakes last Saturday. Lena brought coffee. It was mostly milk, which she did on purpose.
When I noticed, she just shrugged and said, “Old family recipe. ”
I’m going to build it right.
