The next day, I found myself seated at our dining room table, a pot of coffee growing cold in front of me. I had spent the night going over the documents, analyzing every clause, hoping to find something that would explain my brother’s actions.
My phone buzzed, disrupting the silence. It was a text from my sister, Karen. « Have you spoken to him yet? » it read. I hadn’t; the thought of confronting him filled me with dread.
Instead, I had called Mr. Greene first thing in the morning. « Is there any room for negotiation? » I had asked, my voice steady despite the chaos in my mind.
« Not much, » he replied, his tone regretful. « But we can try to set up a face-to-face with him. » His suggestion felt like a lifeline.
Later that afternoon, I called my brother. The conversation was brief, stilted. « We need to talk, » I said, cutting through the pleasantries.
« I’ll be there tomorrow, » he agreed, his voice giving nothing away.
As I hung up, I realized that all I could do was wait—and hope that the meeting would illuminate whatever had driven him to this point.
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