I’d trusted the wrong people. Amanda and I had met in 2003. She was working as a dental hygienist. I was framing a house for her uncle. She’d been kind then, or at least I’d thought she was. We’d married fast 6 months, and Lily was born a year later. For a while, it had been good. I’d worked. She’d worked part-time. We’d saved money.
We’d talked about buying land and building our own place. Then, her father had gotten sick. prostate cancer stage three. The treatments had been brutal and Amanda had wanted to be close to her family. We’d moved into a cabin on her parents’ property in Lake Country just north of Colona. It was supposed to be temporary. That was in 2016. Douglas recovered. We stayed.
The cabin had been in the Chen family for generations. Douglas’s grandfather had homesteaded the property in the 1940s. 22 acres of forest and lakefront worth millions now with the way the valley had developed. The cabin itself was modest. Two bedrooms, cedar shake roof, a stone fireplace.
I’d spent 3 weeks rebuilding the winter we moved in. I’d poured work into that place, extended the deck, renovated the kitchen, built a workshop out back where I could take on side projects. Douglas had said it was fine, encouraged it, even told me to think of it as our home. I’d never asked for anything in writing. He was family. Amanda’s father, Lily’s grandfather.
I should have known better. The divorce had come out of nowhere. Or maybe I’d just been blind. Amanda had said I worked too much. That I wasn’t present. That she needed space to find herself. By the time I realized she’d been seeing someone, a golf instructor, at her parents’ country club, a guy named Brett with a trust fund and a soft handshake, it was over. She’d already filed.
The cabin went to her. It had never been in my name. The truck I’d been driving registered to her father’s company. The joint account she’d withdrawn everything 2 days before serving me papers, even my tools. Apparently, I’d signed something years ago, acknowledging they were company assets when I’d done some contract work for Douglas’s property development business.
I’d walked away with my clothes, my personal tools, and my daughter. 6 months later, a judge had taken my daughter, too, at least partially. That was when I’d realized the Chens hadn’t just divorced me, they’d erased me. Now, sitting in the truck with Lily, eating her muffin, watching the morning traffic build on Highway 97, I tried not to think about what I’d lost.
I tried to focus on what I still had. My daughter, my hands, my will to keep going. Lily finished eating and wiped her mouth with the napkin I’d saved from yesterday. She looked at me with those serious brown eyes, so much like her mother’s, and said, “Dad, when can we go home?” “Soon, sweetheart. I’m working on it.” “Okay.” She believed me.
That made it worse. I drove her to school, watched her disappear into the building with her backpack too big for her small frame. And then I headed to the Home Depot. 14 men were already there, stamping their feet against the cold. November in the Okonagan was unpredictable. Sometimes snow, sometimes rain, always cold enough to remind you that winter was coming.
No one picked me that day. By noon, I was sitting in the library on Ellis Street, using their computers to search for work. I’d applied to 43 jobs in the past 2 months. Zero responses. Douglas Chen had been thorough. That was when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. Is this Marcus Whitfield? Yeah. Who’s this? My name is Jennifer Price.
I’m a lawyer with the firm Okonogan Legal Partners. I need to speak with you about a property matter. Can we meet? My first thought was that Amanda was suing me for something else. Child support I couldn’t pay or some debt I didn’t know about. What kind of property matter? I’d rather discuss it in person. Are you available this afternoon? I guess.
Where? She gave me an address downtown near the courthouse. I almost didn’t go. I had $6 in my pocket and no reason to trust lawyers. But something in her voice had been urgent, almost excited, and I didn’t have anything else to do. The office was in one of those renovated heritage buildings on Water Street, all exposed brick and modern glass.
I felt out of place immediately. My jeans were stained with drywall dust. My jacket had a tear in the shoulder, and I probably smelled like someone who’d been sleeping in a truck. The receptionist didn’t look at me twice. Mr. Whitfield. Miss Price is expecting you. Jennifer Price was maybe 50, sharpeyed, wearing a navy suit that probably cost more than I made in a month.
She shook my hand firmly and gestured to a chair. Thank you for coming. I know this must seem unusual. You could say that. She opened a folder on her desk. Mr. Whitfield, are you aware that your uncle Gerald Whitfield passed away 14 months ago? I blinked. Uncle Gerald? Yeah, I I heard. We weren’t close. I didn’t go to the funeral.
