I felt anger rise in my chest.
But beneath it was sadness.
This was still my son.
This was the little boy I had carried on my shoulders. Somewhere along the way, he had allowed resentment, financial pressure, and entitlement to distort the truth.
“Michael,” I said, “this land is not simply a piece of property to me. It’s my home. It was your mother’s home. It’s where we raised you and Sarah.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not leaving it to me, are you?”
The question caught me off guard.
“What?”
“I know what you’re planning. You’re going to leave everything to Sarah.”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at her when she visits. She can do no wrong. She moved away, comes home once or twice a year, and you treat her as though she’s perfect.”
