… If we lived together in the farmhouse for exactly 365 days. Without killing each other.
My brother’s jaw hit the floor. “You’re joking,” he stammered. “I have a life! I have a condo in the city! I can’t live in this drafty old shack with her for a year.”
The lawyer didn’t blink. “Those are the terms. If either of you moves out or spends more than three nights away, the entire estate—the millions in the accounts, the vintage Patek Philippe watches, and the land—will be liquidated and donated to the local donkey sanctuary. Your father was very specific.”
We stared at each other. We hadn’t spoken more than a polite “hello” in ten years. But the money was life-changing. Reluctantly, we signed the papers.
The first month was a nightmare. We marked our territories like stray cats. I stayed in the kitchen; he stayed in the den. We argued over the thermostat, the grocery list, and whose turn it was to shovel the snow. It felt like a prison sentence.
But then, the winter storm hit. The power went out for three days, and the pipes froze. We were forced to huddle by the fireplace in the living room just to stay warm. With nothing to do and no Wi-Fi, we started talking. Really talking. Not about the inheritance, but about us. About why we stopped talking when Mom died. About how lonely we had both been.
We found Dad’s old journals in the attic a few months later. In them, he wrote about his biggest regret: watching his children become strangers. He knew he couldn’t force us to love each other, but he could force us to be in the same room long enough to remember that we were family.
By month six, we weren’t just roommates; we were partners. We started fixing up the farmhouse together. My brother, who had never lifted a hammer in his life, restored the front porch. I planted the garden Dad always wanted. We laughed for the first time in a decade.
When the 365th day arrived, the lawyer returned with the checks and the deeds.
“Congratulations,” the lawyer said, setting the paperwork on the table. “The year is up. You can sell the farm, split the cash, and go your separate ways.”
My brother looked at the check, then at me. He looked out the window at the garden we planted.
He pushed the check back toward the lawyer. “We’re not selling the farm,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going back to the city. Jen and I have a lot of lost time to make up for. This place… this is home.”
Dad didn’t leave us a fortune to make us rich. He left us a trap to make us a family again. And it was the best gift he ever gave us.
