There's a specific kind of quiet that settles into a house after someone's gone. Maybe it's your mom's place off Fair Oaks Boulevard, still smelling like her coffee. Maybe it's your dad's mid-century rancher in Arden Park that he never got around to updating, exactly the way he liked it. You're standing in the garage looking at forty years of Christmas decorations, and somewhere between the grief and the paperwork, someone asks: what are we going to do with the house?
I've sat across the kitchen table from a lot of families with an inherited home asking that question. This is for you.
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