He hadn’t shaved.
His shoulders were rounded forward like his bones had given up the idea of standing straight a long time ago.
The kitchen smelled like stale coffee, cold ham from the funeral trays, and the medicinal sweetness that had soaked into every wall of the house during Mom’s last years.
I hated that I only noticed it now.
“You think I want the house?” he asked.
He turned around and looked at me.
Really looked at me.
“You think this is about square footage?”
“No,” I said too quickly.
“Yes,” he said. “You do. Because money is the only language you know how to speak when things get ugly.”
That hit harder than the notebook had.
Because it was true.
When our father disappeared, I learned to survive by becoming useful.
Useful got praise.
Useful got scholarships.
Useful got promotions.
Useful got invited into rooms with polished tables and expensive water glasses and people who never let their feelings ruin a meeting.
I built my whole life around being the man who solved problems cleanly.
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