The kitchen still had the rooster-patterned tiles my grandmother had chosen decades earlier, tiles Dad had never bothered replacing because he liked them. The living room still held his armchair angled perfectly for his aching hip. In the basement, every tool remained neatly outlined on the pegboard exactly where it belonged.

His bedroom was untouched.

His reading glasses rested on the nightstand.

A library book was three weeks overdue.

His robe still hung behind the bedroom door.

I sat on the edge of his bed and looked at it.

Dad had always shown up.

When I needed appendix surgery, he’d driven forty minutes to sit beside me even after I insisted it was only a minor operation. He helped me move twice. After one painful breakup, he simply sat across from me at the kitchen table and listened without offering advice. Every Tuesday evening for twelve years, he called because Tuesday was the day he always called, and I hadn’t realized how much comfort that routine gave me until it disappeared.

I sat there with those memories until the silence felt almost familiar.

Then I went home and finally slept.

The following morning, I called Gerald again.

I wanted to understand exactly what being executor allowed me to do. He patiently explained that my responsibility was to guide the probate process and keep everything moving fairly. I couldn’t decide the future of the house on my own, but I could establish a reasonable timeline and oversee the process.

“How much time do I have?” I asked.

“The estate doesn’t close overnight,” he said. “A few months of thoughtful consideration is entirely reasonable.”

“And if Derek and Amber press for a faster timeline?”

“They can press,” Gerald said. “The executor manages the pace.”

I thanked him.

Over the next two weeks, I buried myself in paperwork. I contacted banks, utility companies, insurance providers, and every institution that needed notification. Organizing those practical details gave me something concrete to focus on while grieving.

The memorial service drew far more people than I expected. My father had spent thirty years building homes throughout the town, and many of the families he’d worked for came to pay their respects, sharing stories I’d never heard before.

Derek and Amber stood beside me throughout the service. We were kind to one another, balancing genuine grief with the reality that we also shared an inheritance.

Twice during the reception, Derek mentioned the house. The second time, Amber quietly touched his arm, and he stopped speaking.

That told me enough.

So I invited both of them to meet the following Saturday at Dad’s house.

It felt like the only place where that conversation truly belonged.

The following Saturday, Derek showed up first. He brought his girlfriend, Maya, explaining she was there for support. She hadn’t been invited, but I didn’t object. About twenty minutes later Amber arrived carrying a homemade coffee cake. It was a thoughtful gesture, even if eating cake while discussing the future of our father’s estate felt strangely out of place.

I had spent the week preparing.

Not because I’d already made my decision, but because I wanted us to understand every realistic option before making one.

“I want us to make a good decision,” I told them. “And I think a good decision requires more information than we currently have.”