Patricia didn’t own it.
She never had.
The house belonged to her husband, Walter Monroe.
Walter was Grant’s father.
Quiet.
Kind.
Gentle in a family that seemed to value volume and status.
I loved Walter in a way I eventually realized I had never quite managed to love his son.
Walter was the only Monroe who treated me like a person.
At endless family gatherings, while Patricia dominated the living room, Walter and I would sit on the back porch together.
He told me stories about the property.
How he built the treehouse in the oak when Grant was small.
The winter the pipes froze.
How his own father had bought the house during the Depression for an amount that today wouldn’t cover a year of property taxes.
Walter noticed how Patricia treated me.
He noticed that Grant rarely defended me.
He never said much.
But I think it bothered him.
