My stepmother handed me a trash bag of my clothes and said, “Your father is d;ea;d, and the house is mine. Get out.” She slammed the door in my face while her kids laughed from the window. I was eighteen, broke, and alone. She thought that was the end of the story. She didn’t know my father had left a separate, secret will in a safety deposit box that only I had the key to. Ten years later, I bought the company she worked for. Today, I’m going to walk into her office and ask her the same question she asked me: “How does it feel to lose everything?”

“Julian! Bro! Help us out! Mom says you did this! You can’t leave us here!”

I looked at him through the glass. I remembered him laughing in the window while I stood in the rain.

I didn’t roll down the window. I didn’t stop. I drove past him, through the open gates, up to the front door.

I got out. The house was silent.

I walked up the steps. The heavy oak door was the same.

I reached into my pocket. I didn’t use the electronic keypad. I used the small, silver key my father had given me.

It fit perfectly.

I turned it. The lock clicked.

I pushed the door open.

The foyer was empty. The furniture was gone—Victoria had sold most of the good pieces years ago. The house smelled of her perfume and neglect. Dust motes danced in the shafts of afternoon sunlight.

I walked into the living room.

The spot where I had stood crying at eighteen was now just a patch of hardwood floor.

I walked to the fireplace. The mantle was bare, except for a dust outline where a clock used to be.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out a framed photograph. It was me and my dad, fishing on the lake when I was ten.

I placed it on the mantle.