The conference table. My business. Forty‑three years of my life. The mediator’s pen stopped moving, and I watched my brother’s smile fade for the first time in six months.

That morning started like any other court day. I’d been in mediation for three weeks, listening to my younger brother, Marcus, explain why he deserved half of Morrison Custom Carpentry—the business I’d built from nothing while he was getting his third degree in Vancouver. The mediator, Diane Chen, seemed sympathetic to his case. Too sympathetic. I’d later find out why, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me take you back to where this really began. Not six months ago when Marcus filed his lawsuit. Not even three years ago when our father died. This started forty‑three years ago, in 1982, when I was twenty‑one and young enough to believe that hard work and family loyalty meant something. I’d just finished my apprenticeship as a carpenter in Calgary. Dad worked at the oil refinery. Mom was a school secretary. We weren’t poor, but we weren’t comfortable either.

Marcus was fourteen, already showing signs of being what my mother called academically gifted and what I privately called allergic to manual labor. One night after dinner, Dad pulled me aside.

“David, your brother’s going places. University? Maybe graduate school. Smart kid. You know we can’t afford to send you both to university.”

I nodded. I’d never been much for school anyway. “I know, Dad.”

“You’ve got good hands. You’re talented with wood. Why don’t you start something of your own? I’ve got eight thousand dollars saved up. It’s yours if you want to build something.”

Eight thousand dollars. In 1982, that was enough to buy tools, rent a small workshop, and survive for about six months if I was careful. I took it. I named the business Morrison Custom Carpentry, and I worked seventy‑hour weeks for the first five years—kitchen cabinets, furniture restoration, custom built‑ins for the new developments going up all over Calgary during the oil boom. By the time Marcus graduated high school, I was employing three people. By the time he finished his first degree at UBC, I had twelve employees and had just landed my first commercial contract. By the time he got his PhD in economics, I’d built the premier renovation and custom‑carpentry business in Calgary with forty‑two employees and annual revenue of $4.8 million.

Marcus became a professor of economics. Ironically, he taught at UBC for fifteen years, then at the University of Alberta in Edmonton. He published papers about market efficiency and resource allocation. He never once asked about the business, never visited the workshop, never showed any interest in what I’d built. Dad was proud of both of us in different ways. “My professor son and my entrepreneur son,” he’d say at family dinners. But I noticed something. When Marcus came home for Christmas, Dad’s eyes would light up in a way they never quite did for me. When Marcus published another paper, Dad kept a copy on his desk. When I won the Calgary Small Business Excellence Award in 2008, Dad said, “That’s great, son,” and went back to reading Marcus’s latest article.

I’m not complaining. I understood. Marcus was the success story. I was just the guy who worked with his hands.

Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2019. Dad took care of her for three years before his heart gave out in March 2022. Marcus flew in from Edmonton for the funeral, stayed for four days, and flew back. I moved Mom into a memory care facility, visited three times a week, and paid the $6,200 monthly fee because her care needs exceeded what the public system could provide. Marcus contributed $500 a month. “Professor’s salary,” he’d say. “Not like you, big successful business owner.”

Six months after Dad’s funeral, Marcus called me.

“We need to talk about the business, David.”

I was in my truck heading home after a site visit. “What about it?”

“That promised share.”

I nearly drove off Crowchild Trail. “What?”

“Dad always said the business was for both of us. Family legacy. He told me that dozens of times over the years.”

“Marcus, I built this business. Dad gave me $8,000 in 1982. That was his contribution. Everything else is forty‑three years of my life.”

“Dad said it was a family business. Family. That includes me.”

“Marcus, you never worked a single day at Morrison Carpentry.”

“Doesn’t matter. Dad’s promise matters. I’ve been patient. I’ve let you run things, make decisions, but now it’s time to formalize the arrangement. I want fifty percent ownership, and I want it in writing.”

I pulled into a Tim Hortons parking lot. “Marcus, are you serious?”

“Dead serious. You’ve had forty‑three years to build wealth. I’ve been in academia making a fraction of what you make. Dad knew that. He wanted to balance things out. He told me, David. Multiple times. The business is for both my boys.”

“Even if Dad said that, which I doubt, it doesn’t mean anything legally. The business is registered in my name. I have forty‑three years of tax returns—everything. It’s mine.”

“We’ll see what a lawyer says. I’m giving you a chance to do this the right way, David. The family way. Fifty‑fifty partnership, or I file a lawsuit for what Dad promised me.”

He hung up. I sat there for an hour watching people go in and out for coffee and Timbits, trying to process what had just happened. My little brother, who I’d watched grow up, who I’d helped pay for his second degree when things were tight, who’d never shown any interest in my business, was threatening to sue me.

I called my wife, Jennifer. We’d been married for thirty‑eight years, raised two kids now in their thirties with families of their own.

“He’s bluffing,” she said. “Marcus isn’t that person. He’s your brother.”

But he wasn’t bluffing. Two weeks later, I received a statement of claim from a law firm in Edmonton. Marcus was suing me for fifty percent ownership of Morrison Custom Carpentry, claiming that our father had made a verbal promise that the business would be split equally between his sons and that this promise constituted a binding agreement. He was also claiming $600,000 in back compensation for his theoretical ownership share over the past ten years.

The claim was ninety‑three pages long. It painted me as a manipulative older brother who had exploited family resources and parental favoritism to build a business that rightfully belonged to both of us. It claimed I had systematically excluded Marcus from business decisions. It claimed Dad had repeatedly and consistently promised Marcus half the business with specific dates and conversations listed. I read it three times, feeling sicker each time. The dates were real—Christmas 2015, Thanksgiving 2018, Dad’s seventieth birthday in 2019—but the conversations? I had no memory of Dad ever saying anything like that. And I’d been at all those family gatherings. Surely I would have heard if Dad had promised Marcus half my business.

I hired a lawyer, Patricia Wong, one of the best litigation attorneys in Calgary. She read the claim and pursed her lips.

“This is going to be expensive, David. He’s asking for mandatory mediation first, which is standard in Alberta for commercial disputes under five million. If mediation fails, we go to trial.”

“Can he win? Can you actually win a business with a verbal promise?”

“In Alberta, it’s difficult but not impossible. If he can prove your father made a clear, specific promise intended to create legal obligations and that Marcus relied on that promise to his detriment, then yes—it’s called promissory estoppel. But the burden of proof is high.”

“What about the business registration? My tax returns? Forty‑three years of me as the sole owner?”

“That helps us, absolutely. But if a judge believes your father made a binding promise, ownership records might not matter. The question is: did your father promise Marcus half the business?”

I thought about it. Dad had said “the business is for my boys” a few times over the years—usually after a couple of beers at Christmas—talking about legacy and family. But it was never specific. It was never “Marcus, you own half.” It was the vague sentimentality of an old man who wanted his sons to get along.

“Maybe,” I admitted. “Dad said some things over the years, but nothing specific. Nothing legal.”

Patricia nodded. “That’s what Marcus is counting on. The vagueness works in his favor. He can claim Dad meant ownership. You can claim Dad meant emotional legacy. It becomes he‑said, he‑said—except your father isn’t here to clarify.”

“So, what do we do?”

“We go to mediation and hope we can settle for something reasonable. If not, we prepare for trial. Start gathering any documentation—business records, incorporation papers, any letters or emails from your father, any witnesses who heard these alleged promises.”

I spent the next month going through forty‑three years of documents. I found the original $8,000 check from Dad dated October 1982. I found letters Dad had sent me over the years—birthday cards and Christmas notes. One from 1995 said, “Proud of what you’ve built, son. You’ve created something special.” Another from 2007 said, “Morrison Carpentry is a testament to your hard work and vision.” None mentioned Marcus. None mentioned sharing ownership.

I called Mom’s memory care facility and tried to talk to her about it. She was having a bad day.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Where’s Harold?”

Harold was my father. She’d been asking for him for three years.

Mediation was scheduled for late November, almost a year after Dad’s death. The mediator was Diane Chen, a sixty‑year‑old former judge who specialized in family‑business disputes. She came highly recommended. The first session was in a bland conference room in a downtown Calgary office building. Marcus arrived with his lawyer, a sharp‑dressed guy named Richard Thorne from Edmonton. They sat across from me and Patricia like we were negotiating a corporate merger, not dismantling a family.

Diane started with the standard speech. “I’m here to help facilitate a resolution that both parties can live with. This isn’t a courtroom. I can’t force anyone to do anything, but I can help you find common ground.” A little U.S. flag pin on her briefcase caught the light—leftover from an American Bar Association conference she’d attended—one of those cross‑border things that reminded me how often our projects ran into the States, filing 1099s for Montana clients and sourcing hardware from Ohio. North American business is messy that way.

Marcus spoke first, voice calm and reasonable, the same voice he probably used when lecturing economics students.

“David, I don’t want this to be adversarial. We’re brothers. But Dad made a promise, and I need you to honor it. He told me many times the business was for both of us. He saw my academic career, saw that I wasn’t making the kind of money you were making, and he wanted to balance things out. That was his wish.”

I stared at him. He looked sincere. That was the worst part. He genuinely seemed to believe this.

“Marcus, I’ve been running Morrison Carpentry for forty‑three years. You’ve never worked there. You’ve never even visited the workshop. When did this promise supposedly happen?”

“It wasn’t a single conversation, David. It was years of conversations. Dad would talk to me about the business, about how it was a family asset, how he wanted both his sons to be taken care of. The specific times are in the claim—Christmas 2015: he sat me down and said, ‘Marcus, don’t worry. The business will be there for you. David knows it’s for both my boys.’ Thanksgiving 2018—same thing. His seventieth birthday—he said it again.”

“I was at all those events. I don’t remember Dad saying that.”

“You were busy talking to Jennifer’s family or dealing with the kids. These were private conversations, David. Father and son.”

Diane intervened. “Let’s focus on finding a solution. Marcus, what would a fair resolution look like to you?”

“Fifty percent ownership, formalized in legal documents. I’m willing to let David continue as CEO and handle day‑to‑day operations. I don’t need to be involved in management, but I want my ownership stake recognized, and I want to start receiving fifty percent of the profits.”

Patricia jumped in. “That’s not reasonable. Morrison Carpentry generates roughly $800,000 in annual profit. You’re asking for $400,000 a year for doing nothing.”

“I’m asking for what my father promised me.”

I found my voice. “Even if Dad said something like that—which I’m not conceding—wouldn’t it make more sense to interpret it as me helping you out if you ever needed it, not literally giving you half the business?”

Marcus shook his head. “Dad was specific, David. He said the business was for both of us, not ‘help Marcus if he needs it.’ He said we were both owners.”

The first session ended with no progress. Diane scheduled two more sessions over the next month. Between sessions, I couldn’t sleep. I’d lie awake at night staring at the ceiling, thinking about those family gatherings Marcus had mentioned. I tried to remember Dad’s exact words. Had he said something that could be interpreted as a promise? I’d had a few beers at those parties—busy hosting, talking to everyone. Had I missed something important?

Jennifer noticed. “You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. This is wearing you down.”

“If I lose this case, I lose everything. The business is worth about six million. If Marcus gets half, I either buy him out for three million—which I don’t have—or sell the business and split the money. Either way, Morrison Carpentry is finished.”

“Marcus wouldn’t actually destroy the business. He’s your brother.”

“I don’t think I know my brother anymore.”

The second session was worse. Diane seemed sympathetic to Marcus’s position. She kept using phrases like “family promises,” “moral obligations,” and “your father’s wishes.”

“David,” she said, “even if there’s ambiguity in what your father said, don’t you feel some obligation to honor his intent? He clearly wanted both his sons to benefit from the business.”

I felt my blood pressure rising. “His intent was for me to build something and be successful, which I did. I’ve helped Marcus over the years. I helped pay for his second degree. I’ve covered Mom’s care facility costs beyond what he contributes. I’ve been a good brother.”

“But you’ve never offered him any stake in the business.”

“Because it’s my business. I built it. Every brick, every contract, every employee hired, every crisis survived—that was me. Not Dad. Not Marcus. Me.”

Diane looked disappointed. “Family businesses often involve informal arrangements. Courts recognize that not everything needs to be written down. Sometimes a father’s word to his son is enough.”

That’s when I realized she’d already made up her mind. She thought Marcus deserved something. Maybe not fifty percent, but something substantial. And as a mediator, she was steering us toward that outcome.

Patricia noticed too. After the session, she pulled me aside. “I don’t like this. Chen is showing bias. If she recommends a settlement and you reject it, that could look unfavorable if we go to trial. Judges sometimes give weight to mediator recommendations.”

“What do I do?”

“We need evidence. Hard evidence. Something that shows your father did not intend Marcus to have ownership—letters, documents, witnesses, anything.”

I spent another week digging through old files. I found business loans from the 1980s and 1990s, all in my name only. I found the original business registration from 1982. I found tax returns going back forty‑three years, all showing me as the sole proprietor—then, after incorporation in 1995, the sole shareholder. But I also found something else: a letter from Dad dated 2010 in a box of old personal papers. It was addressed to me, handwritten in Dad’s messy scrawl.

“David, just wanted you to know how proud I am. Morrison Carpentry is proof that hard work and dedication pay off. You took my $8,000 and turned it into something remarkable. That’s all you, son. Your vision, your sweat, your success. Keep building. Love, Dad.”

I read it five times. “That’s all you, son. Your vision, your sweat, your success.” Not “your and Marcus’s success.” Not “our family business.” Your success.

I brought the letter to Patricia. She smiled. “This is good, David. Very good. It shows your father viewed the business as yours, not as a family asset.”

The third mediation session was scheduled for December 15—two weeks before Christmas, one year and nine months since Dad died. That morning, I arrived early. I sat in my truck in the parking lot, holding Dad’s letter. I thought about calling Marcus, trying one more time to reason with him before we went inside. But what would I say? We’d already said everything.

I walked into the conference room. Marcus was already there, looking confident. Richard Thorne was reviewing documents. Diane was setting up her laptop. We sat down. Patricia placed Dad’s letter on the table.

“Before we begin,” she said, “I’d like to introduce new evidence. This is a letter from Harold Morrison to David, dated June 2010. I’ll read the relevant portion.”

She read Dad’s words aloud—the part about “your vision, your sweat, your success.” Marcus’s face didn’t change, but I saw his lawyer lean over and whisper something. Diane frowned.

“That’s certainly interesting, but it’s from 2010. Marcus’s claim involves statements made between 2015 and 2019. Your father’s views could have changed.”

Patricia nodded. “Certainly possible, but it establishes a pattern: Harold Morrison viewed Morrison Carpentry as David’s business, David’s success—not a family asset.”

“One letter doesn’t disprove years of verbal promises,” Richard said.

“Perhaps not,” Patricia replied. “But let’s talk about those verbal promises…”

Part 2

“Perhaps not,” Patricia replied. “But let’s talk about those verbal promises. Marcus claims his father made specific statements on specific dates—Christmas 2015, Thanksgiving 2018, and Harold Morrison’s seventieth birthday in March 2019. He claims these were private conversations, just father and son. Is that correct, Marcus?”

“That’s correct,” Marcus said.

Patricia opened her briefcase and pulled out a thick folder. “We’ve obtained Harold Morrison’s medical records from his family physician, Dr. Robert Chen, covering 2014 through 2022.”

Diane looked up sharply. “Medical records? What does this have to do with—”

“Harold Morrison was diagnosed with early‑stage Alzheimer’s in November 2014.” Patricia’s voice was steady. “Dr. Chen’s notes indicate cognitive decline beginning in 2013, with formal diagnosis in late 2014. The family was informed. The recommended plan included monitoring, medication, and a note: ‘Family members should document any major decisions or promises, as patient may experience confusion about prior statements.’”

Silence. Marcus found his voice. “That’s not—Dad didn’t have Alzheimer’s. Mom did.”

“Your mother was diagnosed in 2019,” Patricia said, “but your father was diagnosed five years earlier. The family was told. Were you not informed, Marcus?”

I remembered that appointment in 2014, just before Christmas. Dad had asked me to come. Early stages, the doctor said. He’ll have good days and bad days. He might repeat stories, forget recent conversations, but he’s still capable of managing his affairs for now.

I’d been the one handling Dad’s affairs after that—the bills, the prescriptions, eventually the decision to move Mom into care when Dad could no longer manage. I’d assumed Marcus knew. He was in Edmonton and visited maybe three times a year. Maybe I never told him clearly. Maybe I thought Mom had.

Patricia continued. “The Christmas 2015 conversation Marcus describes? Dr. Chen’s December 2015 notes indicate increased confusion and short‑term memory loss. The doctor noted Harold was struggling to distinguish recent events from past events and occasionally making statements inconsistent with reality.”

She flipped to another page. “Thanksgiving 2018: three weeks earlier, Harold had a minor stroke. Hospital records show temporary cognitive impairment. Dr. Chen noted disorientation and confabulation. March 2019—Harold’s seventieth birthday—by then the Alzheimer’s had progressed to moderate stage. February 2019 notes state: ‘Patient should not be making financial or legal decisions without family oversight; cognitive functions significantly impaired.’”

Marcus went pale. “I didn’t know. Dad seemed fine at those gatherings. He was talking, joking, remembering stories.”

“Alzheimer’s patients often seem fine in social situations,” Patricia said, not unkindly. “They can mask symptoms, especially early. But the medical evidence is clear. Your father was not cognitively capable of making binding promises during the period you describe. And even if he said something, a promise by someone with documented cognitive impairment cannot form the basis of a legal claim.”

Diane scanned the records, her expression changing. “I wasn’t aware of this diagnosis. This significantly changes the analysis.”

Richard was already speed‑reading. “Even if Harold had cognitive issues, that doesn’t automatically invalidate everything he said. If he made promises before the diagnosis—”

“The diagnosis was 2014,” Patricia said. “The promises Marcus claims were made between 2015 and 2019—well after diagnosis. And the 2010 letter establishes that before illness, Harold explicitly viewed the business as David’s alone.”

I looked at my brother. He stared at the table, his confidence gone.

“Marcus,” I said quietly, “did Dad really say those things, or did you hear what you wanted to hear?”

He looked up, and for the first time in months I saw my little brother. “He said it, David. I swear. Christmas 2015—we were in the kitchen. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Don’t worry, Marcus. The business is for both my boys. David knows it’ll be there for you.’ I remember it clearly.”

“I believe you remember it,” I said. “But Dad had Alzheimer’s. He was confused. Maybe he was thinking about the $8,000 he gave me and, in his mind, that became both sons. Maybe he just wanted you to feel better about your salary. It wasn’t a legal promise. It wasn’t reality.”

His eyes were wet. “He said it every time I visited. Every Christmas, every Thanksgiving—he’d tell me not to worry, that I’d be taken care of, that the business was ours. I thought it meant something.”

“It meant Dad loved you,” I said. “It meant he wanted you to feel secure. But it wasn’t a binding promise.”

Diane cleared her throat. “Given this medical evidence, mediation is unlikely to result in a settlement favorable to Marcus. If this goes to trial, a judge will almost certainly find Harold lacked capacity to make binding promises during the relevant period.”

Richard stood. “I need to consult with my client.”

We took a break. Patricia and I crossed to the Tim Hortons across the street. My hands shook as I ordered coffee.

“Did you know about your father’s diagnosis?” Patricia asked.

“I knew,” I said. “I’ve managed it for so long it became normal. I didn’t think about how it affected those conversations years ago. I didn’t think Marcus didn’t know.”

“David, your mother was diagnosed later and moved into care. Your father’s condition had to have been discussed.”

“Marcus was in Edmonton. He visited a few times a year. Maybe I assumed someone else told him. Or maybe he knew and didn’t want to remember because it complicated his claim.”

I didn’t want to believe that. I wanted to believe he misunderstood—heard Dad’s confused ramblings and thought they were promises.

We returned to the conference room. Marcus and Richard were there. Marcus looked smaller, deflated.

Richard spoke first. “In light of the medical evidence, we’re prepared to discuss a settlement. Marcus is no longer pursuing an ownership claim. However, we believe there’s a moral obligation to acknowledge the family’s contribution. We propose a one‑time payment of $500,000 in recognition of Harold’s initial investment and legacy.”

Patricia shook her head. “You mean in recognition of a failed lawsuit. That’s not happening.”

“David,” Marcus said, ignoring the lawyers, “Dad gave you $8,000 in 1982. Adjusted for inflation, that’s around $24,000 today. The business is worth six million. Dad’s investment started all of this. Don’t I deserve something for that?”

“You want $500,000 because Dad gave me $8,000 forty‑three years ago? Money I repaid a hundred times over—helping with your education, covering Mom’s care, being the son who stayed and handled things?”

“I want recognition that this isn’t just your success. It’s built on family support.”

“Every business is built on family support,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean you own my company.”

Diane tried to mediate. “Perhaps a smaller amount—a gesture of goodwill.”

Something snapped. “No.”

Everyone looked at me.

“No,” I repeated. “I’m not paying Marcus anything. Not $500,000, not $50,000, not five thousand. You know why? Because this lawsuit has cost me over $80,000 in legal fees already. It’s cost me sleep, health, nearly a year of my life. It’s damaged my relationship with my brother. For what? Because Dad, in confusion, said vague things about family that Marcus turned into a claim of ownership.”

I pulled out my phone. “You want to talk contribution? Let’s talk numbers. From 2019 to 2025, Mom’s memory care costs: $446,400. I paid $400,000 of that. You paid $36,000.”

I scrolled. “Your second master’s degree, 1994 to 1996—when your funding fell through, I loaned you $18,000. You repaid $5,000. That was thirty years ago. I never asked for the rest. 2008—between academic jobs and you couldn’t make your mortgage payment—I sent $12,000. 2015—your car died, you needed a down payment—$6,000. 2020—during campus cuts, I sent you $1,500 a month for eight months. That’s another $12,000.”

I put my phone down. “I’ve given you over $450,000 over the past thirty years, Marcus. Some as loans you never repaid, some as gifts. I never kept a ledger. I never asked for it back. That’s what family does. But now you’re demanding $500,000 more because Dad’s illness made him say confusing things about a business you never contributed to.”

The room was silent. Marcus whispered, “I didn’t remember all that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” I said. “I never made you remember. I helped because you’re my brother.”

Richard stood. “I think we’re done here. Marcus, we should discuss options.”

“There are no options,” Patricia said. “Proceed to trial and David will present the medical evidence, the records, and decades of financial support. No judge in Alberta will rule in your favor. You’ll lose and be responsible for David’s legal costs, which are currently $87,000 and rising.”

Marcus rose slowly. He looked at me the way a fourteen‑year‑old looks at his older brother. “I’m sorry, David. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. Dad said those things and I wanted them to be true. I wanted something beyond my pension. I wanted to matter.”

“You could have asked,” I said. “If you’d come to me and said, ‘I’m struggling. Can you help?’ I would have helped. I always have. But you didn’t ask. You demanded.”

“I know.” He turned to his lawyer. “Richard, withdraw the lawsuit. It’s over.”

“Marcus,” Richard began, but Marcus shook his head.

“My brother’s right. I let Dad’s confused statements become something they weren’t. I convinced myself I deserved half of something I never built. I’m sorry, David. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just need you to know I’m sorry.”

He walked out. Richard gathered his papers and followed. Diane looked uncomfortable. “I apologize, David. I should have investigated more thoroughly before forming impressions.”

I nodded. She left. Patricia grinned. “That’s what we call a complete victory.”

But it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like I’d lost my brother.

Jennifer was waiting when I got home. I told her everything. She held my hand for a long time.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I won, but I lost something bigger. Dad’s gone. Mom doesn’t remember me half the time. And now Marcus… I don’t know if we can come back from this.”

“He apologized,” she said.

“He apologized after his lawyer told him he couldn’t win. That’s not remorse. That’s accepting defeat.”

Jennifer squeezed my hand. “People are complicated. Maybe he really misunderstood. Maybe your dad’s illness created this whole thing. Maybe your brother isn’t a villain—just someone who made a mistake.”

I thought about that for days. Christmas came. Marcus didn’t call. I didn’t call him either. I sent him a card like always. He didn’t send one back.

Three weeks later, a letter arrived—handwritten on Marcus’s university letterhead.

“David, I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since mediation. I talked to my therapist and to colleagues who work in family dispute resolution, trying to understand what happened. I think I created a narrative in my head based on Dad’s confused statements, and I convinced myself it was real because I wanted it to be real. I wanted to feel like I mattered—like I was part of your success. That was selfish. I should have been proud of you. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I want you to know I’m in therapy, and I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting that I hurt you. If you ever want to talk, I’m here. —Your brother, Marcus.”

I read it three times. I showed it to Jennifer.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I think he means it,” she said. “I think he’s horrified by what he did and he’s trying to make amends.”

“Is sorry enough?”

“I don’t know. That’s up to you.”

I didn’t call Marcus. Not that day. Not that week. But I kept the letter.

Part 3

Two months later, in March 2025, the memory care facility called. Mom had passed peacefully in her sleep. I called Marcus. He answered on the first ring.

“David.”

“Mom died this morning.”

Silence. Then, “I’ll be there tomorrow. What do you need me to do?”

We planned the funeral together. We divided tasks: I handled the funeral home and service arrangements; he handled the obituary and contacted relatives. We were efficient, professional—like partners. We didn’t talk about the lawsuit.

At the service, Marcus sat next to me. During the eulogy, he started to cry. I put my hand on his shoulder, the way Dad used to do for both of us when we were kids.

After, we stood by Mom’s casket.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “Not just for the lawsuit—for everything. For not being here more when Mom was sick, for not helping more with Dad, for being the son who left and expected you to handle everything.”

“I don’t want to talk about the lawsuit today, Marcus.”

“I know. I just… I need you to know I regret it. I regret all of it.”

We buried Mom next to Dad at Queen’s Park Cemetery in Calgary—the same place we’d buried grandparents, aunts, uncles. Family ground, Jennifer called it.

A week later, Marcus called. “Can we have coffee? Just talk.”

We met at Tim Hortons, the same chain where I’d sat a year earlier, processing his lawsuit. We ordered coffee and sat across from each other.

“I’ve been thinking about Dad’s letter,” Marcus said. “The one from 2010. ‘Your vision, your sweat, your success.’ That’s what it said, right?”

“Yeah. He was right. It was all me.”

“I tried to take that away because I was jealous.” He stirred his coffee. “Why was I jealous? I was the smart son, the educated one, the one who was supposed to do great things. But you built something real—something that employs people, creates value, will exist after you’re gone. I wrote papers twelve people read. You built Morrison Carpentry.”

“Your papers mattered,” I said. “You taught hundreds of students.”

“It wasn’t enough. Not to me.” He exhaled. “When Dad got confused and started saying things about the business being for both of us, I latched on. I made a story where I deserved half because Dad always wanted to balance things. It was… foolish.”

“Maybe not foolish. Maybe human.”

Marcus looked at me. “Can we start over? Not forget, but start building something new? I don’t want to lose my brother.”

“I don’t know if we can go back to what we were,” I said honestly. “The trust is broken. But maybe we can figure out what we can be now.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

We talked for two hours—about Dad, Mom, our kids, the future. We didn’t resolve everything. Some wounds take time, but it was a start.

A month later, I did something I never thought I’d do. I called Marcus.

“I’m thinking about retirement,” I told him. “I’m sixty‑four. I’ve been doing this for forty‑three years. I’m tired. My knees hurt. I want to travel with Jennifer while we still can.”

“That makes sense,” he said.

“I’m going to transition the business to my senior managers over the next five years—sell them shares gradually, let them buy me out. But before I do that, I want to set up a scholarship at the University of Alberta. One hundred thousand to start, for carpentry and trade students who want to start businesses. I’d like to name it the Harold Morrison Memorial Scholarship.”

He was quiet. “That’s beautiful, David.”

“I’d like you to help administer it. You’re the academic. You know how scholarships work. It would be a way for both of us to honor Dad’s memory—together.”

“I’d be honored.”

“There’s a condition.”

“What?”

“You have to come to the workshop. See the business you tried to take half of. Meet the people who work there. Understand what I built.”

“I’d like that.”

He came the following week. I gave him the tour—workshop, showroom, offices. He met the team, some with me twenty years.

At the end, Marcus said, “I didn’t understand. I really didn’t. This isn’t just a business. It’s forty‑three years of relationships, of craftsmanship, of your life. It’s what Dad’s $8,000 became when someone actually put in the work. I’m sorry I tried to take it.”

“I know you are.”

We set up the scholarship that summer. The first recipient was a young woman from Grande Prairie who wanted to start a custom furniture studio. At the award ceremony, Marcus and I stood together on stage and, for the first time in two years, looked like brothers again. Not the brothers from before. Those brothers were gone. But maybe something better—brothers who had been through the fire and come out scarred, still standing.

Jennifer asked me once if I forgave Marcus. I thought about it a long time.

“I forgive him for being human,” I said. “For being jealous, for being weak, for making a mistake. But I can’t forget what he did—the year of stress, the feeling of being betrayed, the realization that family loyalty has limits. I forgive him, but things will never be the same.”

“Is that enough?” she asked.

“It has to be. The alternative is losing him completely, and I don’t want that.”

Marcus and I talk every couple of weeks now. We have dinner once a month. We manage the scholarship together. We visited Mom’s grave on what would’ve been her eighty‑fifth birthday. We’re building something new. Different. Not as close as we once were, but not lost either—somewhere in between.

On hard days when the old anger resurfaces, I open my desk drawer and read Dad’s 2010 letter again: “Your vision, your sweat, your success.” It steadies me.

Morrison Custom Carpentry will be sold to my managers in 2030. I’ll retire, travel with Jennifer, and spend time with our grandchildren. The business will continue under new ownership and new vision. That feels right.

And Marcus will be in my life in whatever capacity we can manage. Because family isn’t perfection or fairy tales. It’s people doing their best, making mistakes, hurting each other—and trying to find a way forward.

Anyway, I’m sixty‑four years old. I’ve built a business, raised a family, and lived through a mediation where my own brother demanded half of what I created. I’ve learned that documentation matters more than trust; that family promises—if they matter at all—need to be in writing; and that forgiveness is not the same as forgetting. I’ve also learned that people are complicated, motivations are tangled, and sometimes the person who feels like the villain is just your confused younger brother who made a terrible mistake. I don’t know if that’s wisdom or simple exhaustion, but it’s where I’ve landed—for now, that’s enough.

-End-