My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

At last he said, “What do you want from me?”

The question might once have softened me. That morning it only clarified things.

“I want the truth,” I said. “Did you and Diana try to sell this house?”

He did not answer.

Evelyn leaned back in her chair. “Thomas.”

He looked at me instead. “There was discussion.”

“Of course there was.”

“Madeline’s graduate program is expensive.”

I laughed in disbelief. “So you were going to sell my mother’s house to fund Diana’s daughter’s life.”

“It is not that simple.”

“It is exactly that simple.”

He shook his head. “You have your job in Boston. Your apartment. You’re never here.”

The sentence was almost worse than the rest because of how ordinary it was. How familiar. The logic of dispossession dressed up as practicality.

“You decided distance meant abandonment,” I said. “That’s on you.”

He leaned forward then, suddenly intense. “You don’t understand what it has been like with Diana these past few years. The pressure. The fights. She insisted the house was wasted sitting in a trust while you drifted farther away.”

“And what did you say?”

His silence answered again.

“I said we should talk to you,” he muttered finally.

“Did you?”

“No.”