At Christmas, my sister received a $60,000 BMW. I received a plastic piggy bank worth two dollars. I left before sunrise. Then my father sent a voicemail. “Bring the car back immediately, or we’ll report it stolen.”

By mid-March, the forensic audit was complete.

The accountant’s report revealed that the true valuation of Collins Family Holdings, after subtracting the secondary liens and unpaid commercial loans my father had accumulated, was approximately two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. My forty percent share came out to exactly eighty-eight thousand dollars.

Additionally, the audit confirmed that my personal payments toward the Toyota constituted an unauthorized shareholder loan to the company, bringing the total sum owed to me to just over one hundred and ten thousand dollars.

My father’s lawyer sent a settlement offer: twenty thousand dollars in cash and a promise to sign over the Toyota title, paid out over five years.

Sarah Vance laughed when she read the document in her San Francisco office.

"They're broke," Sarah stated, setting the paper down. "Your father doesn't have eighty-eight thousand dollars in cash. His primary consulting firm has been losing money for two years, and he’s been living off credit lines secured against the family real estate."

"What happens if we push for a forced liquidation?" I asked.

"The court orders the sale of the cabin and the garage unit," Sarah explained. "The proceeds go into an escrow account. You get paid your one hundred ten thousand dollars first as a preferred creditor and shareholder. Whatever is left over—which won't be much—goes back to your father."

"Do it," I said without hesitation.

Two days later, my father drove down from Portland to San Francisco. He didn't bring Mom, and he didn't bring Chelsea. He came alone, walking into Sarah Vance’s conference room carrying a worn leather briefcase—the very briefcase I had bought him for Christmas and left beneath the tree three months ago.

He looked smaller than I remembered. The sharp, immaculate suits he always wore looked slightly loose around his shoulders, and the energetic, youthful smile he had displayed on Christmas morning was completely gone, replaced by deep lines of exhaustion around his mouth.

He sat down across the glass table from me. He didn't look at Sarah. He looked directly at me.

"You brought a lawsuit against your own father," he said, his voice flat and hollow.

"You threatened to arrest me for driving a car I paid for," I replied, holding his gaze.

He set the leather briefcase on the table, unlatched the brass clips, and pulled out a manila folder.

"The cabin goes on the market on Friday," he said, handing the papers across the table. "The real estate agent thinks it will sell quickly. The proceeds will go directly to your attorney’s escrow account to settle your claim."

I looked at the documents. They were signed authorization forms for the liquidation of Collins Family Holdings LLC.

"I also had the Department of Motor Vehicles process the title transfer," he added, tossing a small slip of paper onto the glass. "The Toyota is registered solely under your name now. No liens. No company claims."