The wind off the harbor stung my cheeks as I stood at the edge of the pier, staring up at Beacon’s Rest Lighthouse. Its paint peeled in ragged strips, the lantern room dark, iron railings rusted. Three weeks earlier, my family had laughed when they heard what Grandpa left me. Now, standing alone, I could still hear the echo of their voices.
I’m thirty-four. Divorced. Raising two kids on a teacher’s salary in Millbrook Harbor—a town most people pass without a second glance. While others chased titles and corner offices, I stayed: teaching fourth grade, organizing book drives, helping with bake sales, cleaning up the waterfront. My siblings never hid their judgment.
James, my older brother, was a Boston attorney with a skyline office and a calendar booked months ahead. Rebecca, my younger sister, climbed New York’s corporate ladder, fluent in acronyms and quarterly targets. Family gatherings revolved around their accomplishments. My life? Tiny in comparison.
Then Grandpa died.
Thomas Mitchell had been the lighthouse keeper at Beacon’s Rest for forty-seven years. Even after automation made him obsolete, he stayed. He patched storm damage himself, logged ship movements, refused every offer to sell the land. He believed some things were bigger than money.
We had a quiet bond. He respected my choice to teach. “You measure success differently,” he once said. “That’s not a weakness.”
At the will reading, everything split predictably. James got maritime antiques and cash. Rebecca got heirloom jewelry and cash. Then my name was called: Beacon’s Rest Lighthouse—tower, cottage, surrounding land.
They laughed. To them, it was a burden, a crumbling relic. A joke for the sibling who “never aimed higher.”
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