“You live in Chicago.”
“You barely use it.”
“The money would be more practical.”
Every time I refused.
The cabin wasn’t an investment.
It was the last place where I felt connected to someone who genuinely cared about me.
Then came the phone call.
“We accepted an offer on the lake house,” Dad said casually.
For several seconds I couldn’t process the words.
“We?”
“The buyers already transferred the money.”
I stood frozen in my hotel room.
“You sold my house?”
“Don’t make this difficult.”
I heard voices in the background.
Then my mother.
