My Mother Left Me Her House, but Only If I Let My Brother Move in – on Christmas Morning, Everything Finally Made Sense

She flinched like I’d slapped her.

We didn’t talk about it again for a while.

Then, on one of her last clear days, she grabbed my hand.

“Let him try to make it right,” she whispered.

“Please.”

I stared at her.

My dying mother begging me to give my brother another chance.

I swallowed my anger.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

She closed her eyes, relieved.

After she died, the world turned gray for a bit.

Funeral. Food.

People saying, “If you need anything…” and vanishing.

When the lawyer read the will, it was exactly what she said.

The house was mine. But only if Quentin lived there too.

He moved in two weeks later with two duffel bags and a cardboard box.

“I’ll take the basement,” he said. “Keep out of your way.”

“Sure,” I replied.

We barely made eye contact.

I watched him.

I checked the trash.

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