His father had seen trouble coming even before the townhouses went up.
Caleb remembered it clearly now—the arguments at the kitchen table, the rolled-up blueprints, the way his dad would tap a finger against the edge of the survey like he was tapping on someone’s skull.
“They don’t need to steal it all at once,” his father had said. “They take inches. Then feet. Then one day you wake up and someone’s parked on your life like it’s public space.”
Back then, Caleb had thought it was just stubbornness.
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