“Had plans,” I corrected gently. “The new owners take possession next week. Professional property managers. Lovely people.”
This wasn’t entirely true. What I actually did—thanks to Sarah and Jim—was move the house into an LLC I controlled and contract with a high-end management firm to run short-term rentals under strict screening.
But the effect was identical.
Brandon no longer had access. No entitlement. No leverage.
No house.
“No,” I said, meeting his eyes. “This was my retirement home. The home you told me I was too old to manage.”
I closed the folder. “You were right about one thing: I do need family I can count on.”
Brandon’s face crumpled.
“I just realized,” I finished, “you’re not it.”
They left in a storm of slammed trunks and muttered threats about lawyers. I watched the last rental car disappear, then stepped onto my deck and breathed in the ocean air like it was medicine.
The peace lasted exactly one day before the next challenge arrived.
A woman in an expensive suit rang my doorbell, holding legal documents.
“Ms. Sterling,” she said. “I’m Rebecca Walsh. I represent your son in a property dispute matter.”
Of course he did.