For one long, uncertain moment, I almost gave in. Loneliness is a dangerous negotiator; it can make the worst bargain seem almost reasonable. Rebecca was my only child.

Madison and Cooper my only grandchildren. Perhaps I truly couldn’t handle a property this size. Perhaps bitterness had hardened me. Perhaps a man who’d spent nearly a decade eating alone had no business turning away the last people who shared his blood.

Then I studied Rebecca’s face. In her mind, she had already won. She was already choosing furniture. Already deciding which rooms belonged to whom. Already moving me to the boathouse.

“Get in your cars,” I said quietly, “and get off my land.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’ll regret this. When you’re alone in this big empty house wondering why nobody calls, remember this was your choice.”

“It was made nine years ago,” I said. “I’m just honoring it now.”