I drove by the farmhouse that afternoon, or what was left of it. The paint was peeling, the porch sagging, and the once-proud oak tree out front stood half-dead. That house had belonged to my grandfather, a World War II Navy man who’d built it with his own hands when he came back from Okinawa. He used to tell me, “Every board’s got a story, Evie. If you take care of the wood, it’ll take care of you.” He’d left it to me in his will. Now, my parents wanted it.