When my father chose to divide our inheritance early, he called my brother and me to the kitchen table as if it were an ordinary family talk. He gave Chris the family house, explaining that with children, he needed the space. Then he looked at me and said I would receive Grandpa’s old cabin in the woods. Chris smirked, calling it a decaying hunting shack, joking that I’d inherited dust and memories. I didn’t argue. As he drove away satisfied, I stood there with the strange feeling that this decision carried more weight than any of us realized.
That cabin had once been my refuge. While my brother thrived in noise and attention, I found peace in quiet places. Grandpa understood that. He read to me by lantern light, listened without rushing, and taught me that some places help you breathe. After he died, the cabin became a memory I buried to move on, so when I returned years later, I expected little more than rot and silence.
