I thought about it for a long time.
I thought about the blue ribbon. The Olive Garden dinner. The sticky note on the refrigerator. Five hours on a bench.
“I don’t want to destroy him,” I said finally. “I just want to stop being responsible for him. I want my name off the problem.”
Howard nodded slowly. “That’s a very reasonable thing to want.”
“And I don’t want the county to take the house. My dad paid for that house. He worked twenty-seven years to pay for it.”
“Then here’s what I’d recommend.” He picked up a pen. “First, we protect the property. Have you checked the homeowner’s insurance?”
I blinked. “The insurance?”
“If taxes aren’t being paid, I’d bet other bills aren’t either. If that house burns down and there’s no insurance, your half is worth whatever the lot sells for.”
I pulled out my phone and logged into the insurance company’s website. Dad’s old policy with Ohio Mutual had been transferred into both our names after probate. I’d paid the annual premium of $1,140 the first year. Travis had promised to pay the second year.
The policy status said: CANCELED — NONPAYMENT. Effective date: December 3rd.
For two months, my father’s house had been sitting there with no insurance at all.
I turned the phone around so Howard could see it.
He winced. “Then that’s the first call you make when you leave this office.”
I called the insurance agent from the parking lot. Her name was Sheila Park, and she’d written Dad’s original policy back in 1994.
“Oh, Ryan,” she said when I explained. “I’m so sorry. We sent three notices to the house. Your brother never responded. I can write a new policy today. Since there was a lapse in coverage, the premium will be a little higher. I can get you covered for $1,320 a year.”
“Do it,” I said. I paid the full premium with my credit card and had her email me the declarations page. I saved it in a new folder on my laptop labeled DAD’S HOUSE.
Then I drove home, logged into the Franklin County Treasurer’s website, and paid the delinquent property taxes in full: $4,216.38.
It hurt. But I wasn’t paying for Travis this time. I was protecting my half of my father’s house. And now I was doing it with a lawyer, with receipts, and with a plan.
Howard’s letter went out by certified mail the following Monday.
He’d shown me a draft first. It was three pages, clear and calm. It laid out the history of the payments, with my spreadsheet attached as an exhibit. It stated that I had paid $4,216.38 to bring the property taxes current and $1,320 to restore homeowner’s insurance on the property, after both had lapsed because of nonpayment. It said I was seeking reimbursement for Travis’s share of those costs, and of the costs I’d overpaid since our father’s death.
Then it set out three options.
One: Travis could buy out my fifty percent interest at fair market value, determined by an independent appraisal, with credit to me for his unpaid share of expenses.
Two: we could agree to list the house for sale together, split the proceeds equally, and settle the unpaid expenses at closing.
Three: if we couldn’t reach an agreement within sixty days, I would ask the Franklin County Court of Common Pleas to order a partition of the property.
The letter ended with a paragraph Howard had added at my request:
Mr. Ryan Hale has asked me to convey that he would much prefer to resolve this matter directly with his brother, without litigation. He remains open to a conversation at any time.
The certified mail receipt came back to Howard’s office signed by Travis on Thursday.
That afternoon, my phone rang fourteen times in two hours.
I let it ring. I was in a meeting about firewall configurations, and for the first time in my life, my brother’s emergency could wait until I was done.
When I finally walked out to my car, I listened to the first voicemail.
“Ryan, I just got some papers from a lawyer. What is this?” His voice was high and shaky. “It says something about a court? About selling Dad’s house? Call me back. Seriously. Call me back right now.”
The second voicemail was angrier.
“You’re suing me? Your own brother? Over some bills? Mom’s going to lose her mind.”
The third was barely a whisper.
“Ryan, please. I don’t understand what any of this means. Please just call me.”
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