I sat up straighter.
“What?”
“They have more debt than they told you.”
I said nothing.
“They thought the farmhouse could be sold and the proceeds divided.”
“Divided with whom?”
“With them.”
The sentence was so absurdly simple.
“They do not own it.”
“I know.”
“Did they?”
Aunt Helen was quiet.
“I think Robert believed that because your grandfather left it to you, and because you were gone, he could argue you had effectively given it up.”
“That is not how property works.”
“I know.”
I closed my eyes.
The farmhouse had never been about memories to Dad.
It had become an asset he thought he could reach.
I called my mother.
She answered on the first ring.
“Is Dad in debt?”
Silence.
“Margaret.”
Her voice broke. “Yes.”
“How much?”
She told me.
The number was significant but not catastrophic. Business losses. Credit cards. A refinancing decision that had gone badly. Nothing criminal. Nothing glamorous.
Just pride stretched too far for too long.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Your father said you would judge us.”
