The barn wasn’t a gift. It was a joke—one last insult wrapped in weathered wood and rotting beams. While her brothers squabbled over real estate and bank accounts, Claire stood alone at the edge of the field, staring at the sagging roof she now owned. Her inheritance? Dust and silence.
They laughed when she told them she was cleaning it. Told her to dig through the junk and maybe she’d find something shiny. Bryan had the nerve to toast her with wine she hadn’t been offered. Sam just chuckled and said, “You got what you deserved.”
She hadn’t stayed for money. She gave up her job, her life, to care for the father they couldn’t be bothered to visit. And still, they saw her as less—less valuable, less deserving. But the barn held her father’s memory. And she wasn’t walking away.
Claire Whitmore hadn’t expected a thank you—let alone applause. But as she stood on the gravel drive of her childhood home, watching her brothers sip whiskey and laugh on the porch, a familiar tightness crept into her chest. The ache wasn’t new. Just louder now.
The funeral had ended hours ago. Guests had trickled out. Only family remained—what was left of it. The barn stood alone in the distance, weathered and leaning slightly, like it had been holding its breath for this day. Claire hadn’t been inside in over a decade.