“We’re Demolishing Your Beach House,” My Dad Said—Then the Development Board Shut It Down

shoes on weathered wood. My brother Derek climbed the steps like he owned them, his loafers too clean for a place this salty, his hair still holding the shape of whatever product convinced him he was a serious adult.

At thirty-five, Derek had spent the last decade riding our father’s coattails through mediocre real estate deals and country club handshakes.continue reading …