That was the feeling I had now as I stood on the front porch of the house my grandfather had built. The house my father had inherited. The house that was now mine.
I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to put the key in the lock, open the door, and step into the building full of things I didn’t want and a legacy I couldn’t live up to.
Right now, the only thing I wanted to do was get back in my car and, as I drove away from Laurelsburg forever, get on the phone with a real estate agent who could start the ball rolling to sell this place.
But I couldn’t do that. Dad had left it to me. The house meant a lot to the family, and I’d been reminded at every turn what an honor it was to be entrusted with this sacred piece of Griffith history.
And anyway, where the hell would I go if I left? Standing here, rocking on my feet and staring down a door I didn’t want to open, I didn’t exactly have any other keys to any other doors. Rejecting my inheritance—the house, the money, the portfolio—sounded fabulously noble, but from a practical standpoint, I didn’t have a lot of options. If Dad hadn’t died, I’d have ended up coming to live here sooner or later anyway.
In fact, I was pretty sure he knew that. After all, that was why he’d left the house to me and not one of my substantially more successful siblings.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending not to notice the telltale sting.
It wasn’t like Dad had known he was going to die. His death had come as a shock to everyone. He’d been making plans for all kinds of trips, not to mention a few more books he was going to write over the next ten years. His schedule of lectures and keynote speeches had already been booked well into next year with a few even farther out than that. Dad had fully expected to have decades left in him before he even thought about retiring, never mind dying.
But he’d taken the time to adjust his will, ensuring that I received the house along with one quarter of his remaining estate. Maybe he’d done it just in case he died suddenly, which he had. Or maybe he’d done it because he’d believed that by the time he did shuffle off this mortal coil, I’d still be the failure he never let me forget I was.
He didn’t say it, didn’t actually put it in writing alongside his wishes, but I knew my dad, and I could read between the lines: I’m leaving more for him because God knows he’ll need it more than his siblings.
And I fucking hated that he was right.
One way or another, whether because I’d come crawling home to live with my dad because I couldn’t make it on my own or because I’d inherited the place after he’d shocked everyone by dying suddenly, living under this roof and on his money had been inevitable. I wanted to be grateful that I’d always had a failsafe to keep me from homelessness and destitution, but it was hard not to let shame and bitterness overshadow that gratitude.
I pushed out a ragged breath, then slid the key into the lock. It didn’t want to turn, and I had a flicker of hope that I couldn’t get into the house after all. But then the lock gave. Damn.
The hinges squeaked halfheartedly as I opened the door and stepped inside.
Even more than the exterior, the foyer was both alien and familiar. The hardwood floor still creaked beneath my feet the same way it had when I was a kid. The antique grandfather clock still stood beside the stairs, ticking in that same distinctive way it had for as long as I could remember.
The abstract painting on the wall was new. It must have been painted by somebody important. Dad had never had much use for art, especially abstract art, unless he could brag about either being able to afford it or knowing the artist personally.
And just like that, my attitude about the painting soured. The piece was definitely getting sold if one of my siblings didn’t want it. It belonged in the home of someone who would appreciate it, not someone who would glare at it with a lifetime of cynicism.
I left my suitcase and laptop bag beside the stairs and started wandering the house.
The place was huge. It was a little over sixty years old, but had been renovated enough times on the inside that it looked as modern as anything else in the area. Enormous open plan spaces. Huge rooms. A giant kitchen full of top of the line appliances.
Every room was a mix of ornate antique furniture and sleek, contemporary pieces. Dad had never really cared what went together. He liked what he liked, and someone else’s aesthetic standards didn’t concern him.
Kind of ironic, given that our relationship had been strained over my refusal to conform to his standards. But I suppose pairing a gaudily-upholstered red nineteenth century couch with an ultramodern glass-and-metal coffee table was less offensive than a son’s failure to live up to his ultra-successful father’s expectations.
My stomach curdled. I was supposed to live here? Fuck it. Couldn’t I just sell the place?
No. The family would be furious. Dad had been vocal for years that he didn’t want the house to be sold. It might have even been in the will—I hadn’t read it closely. Whatever the case, I was stuck with this building and all the ghosts inside it.
At least I could jettison some of the furniture and decorations. In fact, my brother was coming to town soon to help sort through Dad’s things, and my sisters would both be here sometime after that, though none of them had locked down dates yet. They’d also take anything that had been specifically left to them in the will, not to mention anything they had some sentimental attachment to, so that would hopefully clear out a lot. I wanted them all as far away from me as possible.
Though my relationships with my siblings were a mixed bag, and they weren’t happy that the house had gone to me, I was grateful they were coming. They had crazy busy lives and careers, but there was no way I was getting through all of Dad’s stuff by myself. Even without the emotional baggage attached to it all, there was just the monumental task of going through every single thing my father had accumulated, including everything he’d inherited from his parents. Dad hadn’t been a hoarder, but he hadn’t exactly been prone to a minimalist lifestyle.
I rolled my shoulders. I’d make this place livable. I had to. Even if I just cordoned off one bedroom as my own and avoided the rest of it. In fact, that sounded like a great temporary solution. All I needed was a bedroom, the kitchen, and a bathroom. The rest could be exorcised and converted over time.
That thought… That actually calmed me down a little. Made it a little less overwhelming to imagine tackling all seven-thousand square feet of this godforsaken place.
Then I stepped into the living room, and my heart jumped into my throat. Like the rest of the house, this room was full of a lot of the same furniture and décor I was used to—Grandpa’s antique stuff mixed with Dad’s more modern tastes. But what was sitting beside the couch definitely hadn’t been there long.
Someone had apparently shipped back some of Dad’s climbing gear, and someone had brought it home. His lawyer, probably. Or maybe one of his friends who’d been on the trip with him. Whatever the case, it was here, all arranged neatly against the couch: A well-worn ice axe. A pair of crampons. The climbing helmet with stickers all over it from previous expeditions.
His weathered pack wasn’t there. I tried not to linger on where it was.
For a long time, I just stared at the small pile of Dad’s things. Wow. I had no idea what to feel about the sight of all that. Somehow it made things more real.