I offered my brother a 60-40 split of our mother’s estate. The cheap, stained notebook he threw at me ruined my life.
“Sell it ‘as-is,’ Dave,” I said, adjusting the cuffs of my custom suit. “The market is hot. You can take 60% since you stayed behind to watch Mom.”
I smiled my best corporate smile, waiting for him to thank me.
We were sitting in our childhood kitchen right after the funeral.
I had flown in from Chicago, leaving my corner office and luxury condo.
Ever since I moved away, I sent a check for $2,000 on the first of every month.
In my head, I was the hero. The provider.
But walking through the old house, I was annoyed.
“Why is the yard dead?” I asked, looking out the window. “I sent money for landscaping. And why was Mom so thin in the casket? Didn’t you buy those expensive protein shakes I ordered online?”
Dave didn’t say a word.
He was wearing a suit that was ten years out of style and drowning his thin frame.
His hands were calloused. He looked a decade older than me, even though he was three years younger.
He slowly stood up, walked to a junk drawer, and pulled out a cheap, spiral-bound notebook.
He tossed it onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud.
“Read it,” he whispered, his voice completely hollow.
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