Three years ago my dad’s trust had three hundred forty thousand dollars in it. Last Thursday the statement showed up in the mail and it said eight thousand two hundred. I read it twice. Then I sat down on my kitchen floor with my coat still on, because the number wouldn’t make sense no matter how long I stared at it.

You have to understand, that money wasn’t really money to us. It was the house. Dad built that house in 1974 with his own two hands. He used to point at the front porch and say, “I poured that step myself.” The trust was set up so the house would be safe, so he’d have care money, so none of us would ever have to fight over it. That was the whole point. Keep the house safe.

My brother Dale has been the trustee since 2021. I let him take it, honestly. Dad was getting confused, somebody had to handle the paperwork, and Dale lived twenty minutes away. I live four states out. I told myself I was too far to help. The truth is I didn’t want the headache, so I handed it to him and stopped looking. That part is on me. I’ll own that.

So Thursday night I logged in and pulled the withdrawal records, all of them, going back three years. And there it was, over and over. Checks made out to a company called DW Home Solutions. Fourteen thousand dollars. Every single quarter. The memo line on all of them said the same thing. “Property maintenance.” Fourteen grand, four times a year, for maintenance on a house that’s maybe twelve hundred square feet.

DW. Dale’s initials are D.W. Dale William. I sat there saying it out loud like an idiot. “DW Home Solutions.” I told myself I was being paranoid. Lots of companies have those letters.

So the next morning I got in the car and drove the six hours to Dad’s house, because I needed to see all this maintenance with my own eyes.

Same cracked driveway. The crack’s been splitting wider since before Dad got sick. Same broken gutter that came loose in a storm back in 2019, still hanging off the corner like a loose tooth. I walked inside and turned on the kitchen faucet. Still dripping. Same drip it’s had for years. I stood in that kitchen and I knew. There was no maintenance. There was never any maintenance. Fourteen thousand a quarter and not one nail had been hammered.