As I sat in my car, the cold realization that my own family had become adversaries settled in. The porch light, casting a dim glow over the driveway, flickered like a taunt, reminding me of the warmth that was supposed to be inside. But instead of dwelling on the sting of Vanessa’s slap or the betrayal simmering in my parents’ silence, I redirected my thoughts to what needed to be done next.
The Doyle House had always been more than just a structure to me. It was an emblem of my grandparents’ love, a sanctuary where I had spent countless summers soaking in the wisdom of generations past. Losing it to Vanessa’s ambitions was not an option I was willing to entertain.
I dialed Patrick, my closest friend and a fellow veteran. We had shared trenches and stories, and now, I needed his insight. “Pat,” I began, trying to mask the frustration in my voice, “I need some advice. It’s about my family and the house.”
