“Good idea. Land brings out the best and the worst in families. You own something, folks you never heard from suddenly remember you.” At the time I took it as general wisdom. Later it would feel like a warning I should have listened to more carefully.
Three weeks after I moved in, a piece of forwarded mail arrived addressed to a Mr. Daniel Carter. Inside was a letter from a law office mentioning the ranch’s foreclosure and referencing “your client, Mr. Evan Carter, missing the financing deadline.” I read that line twice. My brother’s first name, my last name, linked to a failed attempt to buy the land I was standing on. A cold thought slid in: this place was not as far from them as I had believed.
Two days later, my father called. “Olivia. You bought property.” It was not a question. It was an accusation. I told him yes. He demanded to know why I had not talked to him first. I reminded him he had not invited me to Christmas. He said that was different and that we were not discussing it. Then he said the thing that made the
