PART 2 I read the whole thread. Darren had contacted the realtor three weeks after my surgery. He told her his father was “moving into assisted living permanently.” He sent her photos of every room. He asked how fast a cash buyer could close.

On Saturday at 10 a.m., Darren pulled into my driveway with Tina, ready to meet the realtor.

He found me in my recliner on the front porch. With a blanket. And Gus. And a sheriff’s deputy.

“Dad,” Darren said. “What is this?”

“Showing’s canceled,” I said. “So is your listing. So is your power of attorney.”

Tina tried. “Floyd, we were thinking about your health—”

“You put my granddaughter in a truck at nineteen below.”

Nobody had an answer for that.

The deputy explained that the Airbnb money—$11,340 since December—had been earned renting a home Darren didn’t own, without the owner’s permission.

Darren paid every cent back within a month. Marta made sure of it.

I changed my will the following week.

The house goes to Avery. All of it. In a trust until she’s 25.

Darren still calls sometimes. I answer. I’m his father.