Chapter 2 - The House I Bought to Breathe Again
The lake house was not enormous.
Four bedrooms sounded excessive until you saw the place.
One room was barely large enough for a desk. Another opened directly onto a narrow screened porch. The oldest part of the house still carried the faint pine smell of the original cabin beneath the fresh paint.
To me, it was perfect.
I bought it after leaving the job that had nearly destroyed me.
For eight years, I worked for a real-estate investment company in Chicago. I built its compliance department from one borrowed office into a national team.
When regulators called, executives sent me into the room.
When investors praised the company’s clean record, my boss accepted the credit.
My family described it as office work.
Ryan borrowed money from me during those years.
For legal fees.
A failed restaurant.
His children’s private-school deposit.
A vehicle he said he needed for work.
He never repaid any of it.
Whenever I asked, Dad told me family did not keep score.
Then my body stopped cooperating.
I could not sleep.
My hands shook during meetings.
One morning, I sat in my car outside the office and could not remember how to open the door.
A doctor called it acute burnout with severe anxiety.
My father called it dramatic.
I negotiated a settlement, resigned, and used part of the money to buy the lake house.
The deed listed only me.
The purchase funds came from my settlement account.
No family money.
No joint loan.
No hidden contribution from Dad.
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The house was supposed to be where I recovered.
Ryan saw four bedrooms and decided recovery was selfish.
