We were still picking cake frosting off the church floor when Oswin finally called. Three weeks after the funeral. He didn’t ask how Mom was holding up. He just asked where the will was.

I hadn’t seen him since he bolted to Costa Rica six years ago. Said he was “finding himself.” I guess he found a tan and a girlfriend twenty years younger. Meanwhile, I was back here unclogging Dad’s oxygen tank and watching his skin turn gray. I held his hand when he went. Oswin didn’t even send flowers.

Now he’s suddenly at Mom’s kitchen table, all linen shirt and fake enlightenment. Said he “felt a pull” to come back. I watched him help himself to leftover quiche like he owned the place.

Mom couldn’t even look at him. She’s never said it out loud, but I think she still blames him for what happened that night Dad collapsed. Oswin was supposed to pick him up from dialysis. He never showed. Said his phone “died.” I had to drive across town at midnight.

Now he wants to “discuss assets.” Like the house Dad built with his own hands. Like the truck he never let anyone else drive. Oswin says they had a “verbal agreement.” That Dad wanted him to have it all. I wanted to punch him through the stained-glass window.

Then he stood up, calmly, and dropped a photo on the table. A printout, grainy and creased. But it was unmistakable: Dad. Oswin. A date written in blue ink. Two months before Dad passed. And in Dad’s handwriting—

It read: “To my son, Oswin. You’ve always been a free spirit. If you ever come back, the truck is yours. Love, Dad.”

My stomach twisted. I didn’t even know they’d seen each other recently. Dad never mentioned it. And I was with him almost every day.

Mom finally looked at the photo, blinking like she wasn’t sure it was real. She picked it up with both hands, holding it so gently, like it might vanish. Her voice cracked when she said, “When was this taken?”

“March,” Oswin replied. “He called me out of the blue. Said he wanted to talk. I flew in for the weekend. We drove to the lake.”

I couldn’t believe it. Dad had hidden that from me. We talked about everything—or so I thought. All those long nights I spent spoon-feeding him applesauce and holding his puke bucket, and he never mentioned seeing Oswin.

“Why didn’t you come to the funeral?” I asked, louder than I meant to.

Oswin shrugged. “Didn’t want to ruin the energy. Funerals are for the living. Dad and I had our goodbye.”

I clenched my jaw. It felt like such a cop-out. A luxury, really—to show up when it suited him and claim the best parts.

But Mom surprised me. She set the photo down, gave it a long look, then nodded slowly. “If your father said that,” she said, “then the truck’s yours.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Are you serious? He doesn’t even know how to change the oil.”

She cut her eyes at me. “It’s not about that.”

The next morning, I walked outside and found Oswin already in the truck, revving it like some cowboy in a movie. I stood by the mailbox, arms crossed.

“You really think he meant for you to have everything?” I asked.

He sighed and turned the engine off. “I don’t want everything, Tavi. I just want one thing that reminds me he didn’t give up on me.”

He paused. “You got to be there at the end. I didn’t. Don’t think I don’t know what that cost you.”

I didn’t say anything. There were too many words tangled in my throat.

Oswin drove off later that afternoon, the truck rumbling down the street like an old war horse. I watched it until it turned the corner.

I thought that would be the last of it.

It wasn’t.

A week later, I got a letter in the mail. Not from Oswin—from Dad’s old friend, Dario. A lawyer. Semi-retired. I hadn’t seen him in years.

He said there was another document. Not a will exactly, but a letter of instruction. Dad had written it by hand and asked Dario to hold onto it “until things settled.”

It was short. Three paragraphs. In it, Dad explained that the official will left the house to Mom, and all other assets were to be divided evenly between Oswin and me. But there was a twist.

“I know my sons. I know who shows up and who runs. So I’ve made one request: They don’t get a dime unless they agree to live under the same roof—for one month—after I’m gone. Just one month. Then the assets are theirs.”

I had to read it three times.

Oswin was already back in Costa Rica by then. I called him and read the letter over the phone. He laughed for a solid thirty seconds.

“You’re kidding. He made us roommate each other to get our inheritance?”

“Dead serious,” I said. “Thirty days. That’s it.”

He groaned. “Tavi, I’ve got a life down here. A business. I can’t just—”

“Well, then I guess you don’t need the money.”

There was a long pause.

“I’ll book a flight,” he muttered.

When Oswin showed up two weeks later, the house felt about ten sizes smaller. He brought a suitcase full of beach shirts and a bag of exotic coffee beans he insisted on grinding at 6:00 a.m. every day.

He danced around the kitchen like he owned it. Tried to meditate in the backyard, which lasted two days until the neighbor’s dog kept barking.

But something started to shift in the second week.

He noticed Mom was having trouble with the stairs and suggested moving her bedroom downstairs. Then he actually did it. Carried the furniture himself, without complaining.

He fixed the back door latch Dad never got around to. Cooked dinner twice. Once it was some weird coconut stew. But the second time? He made our childhood favorite: lentil curry and fried plantains. Just like Dad used to.

I found him in the garage one night, sitting in the truck with the engine off, just staring at the dash.

“I don’t deserve it,” he said when he saw me.

“What?”

“The truck. The house. Any of it.”

I leaned against the doorframe. “Then why’d you come back?”

He hesitated. “Because I miss him. And because I figured… maybe you were right to be mad. I needed to hear it. I needed to feel it.”

We stood in silence for a minute.

Then I said, “He made us do this for a reason, you know.”

“Yeah,” Oswin said, nodding. “He wanted us to remember we’re brothers. Even if we piss each other off.”

The month passed quicker than I expected. By the end, something had softened between us. The jabs became jokes. The silences less sharp.

When Dario handed us the checks—equal amounts—I saw Oswin fold his in half and slide it back.

“I want my share to go to Mom,” he said. “She needs more help than I do.”

I blinked. “You sure?”

He nodded. “I’ve got a life in Costa Rica. But she gave up hers to take care of Dad.”

Later, when we were alone, I asked, “What changed?”

He shrugged. “Dad. You. The house. I guess I just remembered who I was before I left.”

He hugged me before he left. A real one, not the half-hearted shoulder bump we used to do.

“I’ll come back for the holidays,” he said. “If you’ll have me.”

“I’ll save you some quiche,” I said.

We both laughed.

After he left, I found something wedged between the pages of Dad’s old Bible. Another note. In the same shaky handwriting.

“To my boys: You don’t have to agree on everything. Just don’t let the distance win. Family’s like a garden—you leave it too long, it dies. But if you water it, even a little, it comes back.”

I kept that note.

Sometimes, all it takes is one month to mend what six years broke.

And sometimes, the real inheritance isn’t the money. It’s the second chance.

If this reminded you of someone you love—but haven’t called in a while—send that text. Make that call.