It all began the week after my father passed away. He was ninety-one, a stubborn but loving man, who lived in a small town just twenty miles from me. His house, a modest but sturdy one-story place, had been in our family for generations.

When he passed, I was devastated but comforted by the knowledge that part of him lived on through that home, through the things he left behind, and through the memories we all carried.

My father’s will was straightforward, or so I thought. His estate wasn’t large: some savings, a few personal items, and, of course, the house. Naturally, I assumed I would inherit it, being his only child. It wasn’t about money. It was about heritage, about holding on to the pieces of him that mattered.