My parents flew every relative to my brother’s wedding except me. Dad looked me in the eye and said, “You’re not worth a plane ticket. Stay and watch the dogs.” Then he locked every bathroom in the house. I washed with dog shampoo and stayed silent. At Christmas, Mom asked me to house-sit again. My four-word answer made Dad drop his fork.

Three months later, the ink dried on the final contracts.

Dad didn't go to trial. His lawyer, after reviewing Sarah Chen’s mountain of digital receipts, bank transfers, and county registry logs, advised him that he was looking at grand larceny charges if a judge reviewed the case.

To pay the settlement, my parents had to put the four-bedroom suburban house on the market at a steep discount.

They downsized to a cramped, two-bedroom vinyl-sided ranch forty miles outside the city. The boat was sold. The luxury SUV was traded in for an eight-year-old sedan.

Ryan's marriage ended in a bitter, unceremonious divorce. Chloe’s family hired their own forensic accountants, uncovering thousands of dollars Ryan had skimmed from their joint savings to cover his sports wagers. He was demoted at work, forced to move into a tiny basement studio apartment, his dreams of corporate partnership evaporating into endless spreadsheets and sixty-hour workweeks under a boss who didn't care about his high-school soccer pedigree.

I didn't rejoice. I didn't throw a party.

When the wire transfer cleared—three hundred and twelve thousand dollars representing my share of the land sale, back royalties, and legal damages—I didn't buy a sports car or fly to San Diego.

I bought a home.

It was an old, sturdy Craftsman bungalow on a quiet, tree-lined street in German Village, with a deep, fenced-in backyard shaded by two towering oak trees. The hardwood floors were scratched and worn, the kitchen needed new counters, but the windows were enormous, letting in vast floods of southern sunlight.

The day I closed on the house, I hired a contractor for one specific renovation before I moved a single piece of furniture in.

I remodeled the master bathroom.

I knocked down the partition wall, installed radiant heat under the slate floor tiles, and put in an oversized, clawfoot soaking tub with antique brass fixtures and an open walk-in shower with twin rain heads.

On the cedar shelf beside the tub, I placed three glass apothecary jars filled with lavender bath salts, eucalyptus body oils, and a rich, honey-scented French milled soap that cost forty dollars a bar.