“My lawyer handled it.”
“And Chloe?”
“She moved back in with your mother.”
I almost smiled.
I did not.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“For both of them.”
We finished our drinks.
Before leaving, Ethan said:
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the lake house.”
“You didn’t tear the wall down.”
“No.”
“But I stood in your kitchen talking about renovations like it was already decided.”
“You thought she had permission.”
“I should have asked you.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
That was the last real conversation I had with Ethan.
Through relatives, I heard pieces afterward.
Chloe was evicted from her apartment when she could not cover rent.
Brenda took her in.
Chloe started telling people she was writing a memoir about “inheritance trauma.”
Later she announced plans for an art-therapy business despite having no clinical credentials.
At some point she began dating someone new.
I stopped paying attention.
That surprised me.
For months, every new development had felt urgent.
Then one day it simply did not.
Brenda could post.
Chloe could complain.
Relatives could believe them.
The deed stayed in my name.
Grandpa’s will stood.
The business survived.
Maya’s hospital situation faded after our attorney sent formal notices.
The fake reviews were gradually removed where evidence showed they were fraudulent or unrelated to actual customers.
My real clients kept calling.
Projects continued.
Payroll went out.
Buildings got built.
Life became boring again.
Boring felt luxurious.
Maya and I spent most weekends that summer at Cedar Lake.
We repaired the siding.
Rebuilt sections of the dock properly.
Replaced failing plumbing.
Restored the kitchen without erasing it.
That mattered to me.
We installed modern appliances.
Improved lighting.
Repaired cabinet faces.
But the old oak remained.
The gouge in the pantry door remained too.
Maya suggested sanding it out.
I looked at her.
She smiled.
“Kidding.”
By late August, the house felt alive again.
One evening, Maya asked me to walk down to the dock.
The sun was lowering behind the trees.
Orange light spread across the water.
We sat side by side.
For several minutes she said nothing.
Then:
“I need to tell you something.”
I immediately panicked.
“You’re sick.”
“What?”
“You said it like a nurse.”
She laughed.
“I’m not sick.”
“Okay.”
She reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt.
A small folded photograph.
At first I did not understand what I was seeing.
Then I did.
Ultrasound.
I looked at her.
She was crying.
“Twelve weeks.”
I forgot how to speak.