The rental income paid for new locks, new cameras, and the attorney bill. The rest went into a savings account labeled Cabin Boundaries, because sometimes joking is the only way to keep yourself from crying.
Months passed before Dad texted, “Your brother is working again.”
I wrote back, “Good. Work helps people understand ownership.”
He did not reply.
I still visit the cabin between tenants sometimes. I sit on the back deck, drink coffee, and listen to the mountains breathe.
No copied keys hang beside the door anymore.
No one calls it family property.
And if anyone asks whether my brother can rent it out for profit, I already have an answer ready.
Only if he buys one himself.
