At my father’s funeral, my brother stood up and announced, “We’re selling the house right away to cover my $340,000 gambling debt.” Then my mother turned to me and calmly added, “You’ll need to find somewhere else to live.”

She flinched as if I had slapped her. “I gave him my entire life,” she whispered.

“He didn’t leave me the house because he loved me more than you,” I explained. “He left it to me because he knew you would give it to Wesley, and then you’d both have nothing.”

Two weeks later, Wesley checked himself into a facility in North Carolina. I didn’t visit him, but I sent him a short note telling him I was rooting for his recovery.

In the winter, I moved back into the house on Brookside Lane. I kept my apartment in Baltimore for work, but I spent my weekends reclaiming the space that had been taken from me.

The first thing I did was clear out my old bedroom. I moved Wesley’s designer bags and electronics into the garage and painted the walls a soft sage green.

My mother stayed in the guest room under the one-dollar lease. We didn’t talk much, and while it wasn’t exactly peace, it was no longer a state of war.

On Sunday evenings, my grandmother would come over for dinner and tell me stories about the family. I placed fresh flowers on the mantel next to my father’s picture every week.