Dad grabs the papers, glaring at them like they personally betrayed him. His eyes dart over the lines, then back again as if hoping the words will rearrange themselves.
“Your grandfather wouldn’t cut me out like this,” he mutters.
“He didn’t,” I say. “You received the other three properties. The commercial building downtown, the duplex on Riverside, and the strip mall in Oakmont. 1247 Westbrook went to me.”
Mom leans over his shoulder, reading. Her lips move silently as she traces the paragraph with her finger.
The residential building at 1247 Westbrook Avenue is hereby transferred to Cassandra Morrison, effective immediately upon the death of Harold Morrison.
She looks up at me, eyes wide. “Why wouldn’t you tell us?”
“Grandpa asked me not to,” I say simply. “He said Dad wouldn’t read the paperwork anyway, and he was right. For four years, you’ve all assumed the building was in a family trust while I’ve been managing it, maintaining it, paying all the expenses, and collecting rent.”
“Rent?” Dad’s head snaps up. “What rent?”
“The other five units are occupied,” I remind him. “They’ve been rented out the entire time. That’s how I pay for the building’s maintenance, property taxes, insurance, and improvements.”
“You’ve been collecting money from family property?” he demands.
“From my property,” I correct. “My building, my rental income, my responsibility.”
Shannon suddenly leans forward. “But we need that apartment,” she says, voice tight. “For the baby. We won’t have enough room where we are.”
“There are other two-bedroom apartments in the city,” I say. “I can give you a list of comparable properties if you’d like.”
“We can’t afford market rate,” she says, sounding desperate.
“That’s not my problem,” I say, and the words come out colder than I intended. But I don’t take them back.
Eric slams his palm onto the desk, making the letter jump. “This isn’t what Grandpa would have wanted,” he says hotly. “He loved this family. He wanted us to have security. He would never have wanted you to hoard everything like some dragon—”
“Grandpa specifically wanted this,” I cut in. “He put it in writing. He filed it properly. He made sure his attorney documented his capacity. He knew exactly what he was doing.”
My father’s face is a color I don’t think I’ve ever seen before—somewhere between purple and gray. “He was sick,” he says. “He wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“He was completely lucid when he signed the amendment,” I reply. “And for months afterward. His doctor documented it. His attorney documented it. Patricia has all of it.”
“So you’re just,” Mom says, voice thick with tears, “you’re just going to keep it all for yourself? While your brother and his wife struggle?”
“I’m going to continue managing my property as I have been,” I say. “If you want to rent one of the units, you can apply like any other prospective tenant.”
Dad stares at me incredulously. “Rent. From my own daughter?”
“From the property owner who happens to be your daughter,” I say. “There’s a waiting list, but I’d move family to the front if you’re serious.”
“How much?” Eric demands.
“Market rate for a two-bedroom in my building is $2,400 a month right now,” I say. “Which is actually below market for the neighborhood. I keep rents a little lower than I could get because I prefer stable, long-term tenants.”
“That’s insane,” Shannon whispers.
“That’s the market,” I shrug. “I can show you comparable listings.”
Dad is still flipping through the trust copies, looking for some escape clause that doesn’t exist.
“You’ve been managing this building for four years,” he says slowly. “The rental income… you should have been sharing that with the family.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because we’re family,” he says, as if it’s obvious.
I meet his gaze head-on. “Being family doesn’t create financial obligations. You don’t share income from your properties with me. You don’t deposit half the strip mall profits into my bank account every month. Grandpa gave you assets. He gave me one. I’ve managed mine responsibly. Have you?”
He doesn’t answer.
On Friday, I find out just how much he and Eric have absorbed from our conversation. Which is to say: almost nothing.
I come home from a coffee meeting with a client to find Eric in my living room, surrounded by cardboard boxes.
He’s folding my clothes into one of them, badly, cramming my sweaters in like they’re trash bags instead of cashmere I saved up for.
“What are you doing?” I demand, the word ripping out of me.
He looks up, flushed with exertion and something else—triumph. “Helping you pack,” he says. “Since you’re being stubborn about this, Shannon and I decided we’re moving in anyway. You can either leave peacefully, or we’ll make it difficult.”
My whole body goes cold and hot at the same time.
“Eric,” I say carefully, “you need to leave. Now.”
“Or what?” he scoffs. “You’ll call Dad? He agrees with me.”
“No,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket. “I’ll call the police. You’re trespassing in my private residence, after receiving a legal notice to stay away.”
He laughs like I’m being dramatic. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I hit the emergency call button. “Hi,” I say when the dispatcher picks up. “I need to report a trespassing in progress. My brother has illegally entered my apartment and is refusing to leave. Yes, I’m safe. I’m by the door.”
Eric’s bravado falters. “Cassie, come on. Don’t be ridiculous. This is family business.”
“It’s a legal matter,” I say.
The dispatcher confirms my address and says officers are on their way. I stay in the doorway between the hall and the living room, effectively blocking Eric from leaving with any of my things. He fidgets, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“You’re really doing this,” he mutters.
“You broke into my home,” I say. “Again. After being told in writing not to. What did you think was going to happen?”
