“I’m proud to be your family. Not because you inherited James’ money, but because you’ve used it to become the kind of woman who makes being a Sullivan mean something worth respecting.”
As Eleanor left to prepare for the evening’s caregiver support group meeting, I sat in my office thinking about the conversation—about pride and family and the unexpected ways that love could transform even the most damaged relationships. Outside my window, the garden James had helped me plant years ago was showing signs of new growth, bulbs we’d put in the ground together, emerging as proof that some things survived the harshest winters to bloom more beautifully than ever.
The call that changed everything came on a Tuesday morning in late spring while I was reviewing grant applications in my office at Sullivan House. Marcus Rivera’s voice carried an urgency I’d never heard before.
“Catherine, we need to talk immediately. Something’s come up regarding James’ estate. Something I never expected to encounter.”
“What kind of something?”
“The kind that requires a face-to-face conversation. I’m driving to you now.”
An hour later, Marcus sat across from my desk with a briefcase and an expression that mixed excitement with concern. On the conference table, he spread out documents that looked both official and somehow ominous.
“Catherine, what do you know about James’ business activities in the last year of his life?”
“Very little. He stepped back from active management when the treatments became more intensive. I assumed his partners were handling everything.”
“They were. But James was also doing something else, something he kept completely separate from his regular business operations.”
Marcus pulled out a thick folder.
“He was quietly purchasing property. A lot of property.”
“What kind of property?”
“Apartment buildings, mostly. Older buildings in working-class neighborhoods that were being targeted for gentrification. He bought them through shell companies to prevent speculation and price inflation.”
I stared at the documents, trying to process what Marcus was telling me.
“How many buildings?”
“Forty-seven properties across Connecticut and New York. Nearly two thousand rental units.”
Marcus opened his laptop and showed me a spreadsheet that made my head spin.
“Catherine, James spent the last year of his life assembling what amounts to an affordable housing empire.”
“An empire.”
“Properties worth approximately forty-three million dollars, generating rental income while providing stable housing for families who would otherwise be displaced by gentrification. And all of it was structured to transfer to you upon his death with very specific instructions about how it should be operated.”
Marcus handed me a sealed letter with my name written in James’s familiar handwriting.
“He left this with instructions that it should only be given to you after the primary estate issues were resolved and you’d had time to understand your new financial position.”
I opened the letter with shaking hands, seeing James’s careful script on pages that felt like messages from beyond the grave.
My dearest Catherine,
If you’re reading this, it means Marcus has determined you’re ready to understand the full scope of what I’ve tried to build for you. The house, the investments, the foundation—those were meant to give you security and the resources to help individual families facing crisis. The properties described in this folder are meant for something larger. They represent my attempt to address the systemic problems that create those crises in the first place.
I spent months researching the connection between housing instability and family breakdown during medical crisis. Families forced to move during treatment. Elderly people priced out of neighborhoods they’ve lived in for decades. Adult children unable to provide care for parents because they can’t afford to live nearby.
These buildings are my answer to those problems. Stable, affordable housing operated not for maximum profit, but for community benefit. I’ve structured everything so that you can maintain the properties indefinitely while providing housing security for families who need it most.
I know this is a tremendous responsibility to place on your shoulders. But Catherine, if anyone can transform real estate into something that actually serves people rather than displacing them, it’s the woman who spent 15 years turning our house into a home that sheltered more than just us.
The choice of what to do with these properties is yours entirely. You could sell them and use the proceeds for the foundation. You could operate them traditionally for maximum return. Or you could try something unprecedented—housing as a form of social service rather than profit extraction.
Whatever you choose, know that I have complete faith in your judgment. You understand better than anyone what it means to create spaces where people feel safe and valued.
All my love,
James.
I set down the letter, looking at Marcus, who was watching my face with careful attention.
“Forty-three million in real estate,” I said slowly, “with instructions to operate it as affordable housing.”
“More than that,” Marcus said. “James researched cooperative housing models, community land trusts, rent-stabilization programs. He consulted with urban planners and housing advocates. This wasn’t just philanthropy. It was a comprehensive approach to preventing displacement.”
“Marcus, I don’t know anything about property management, tenant relations, housing policy.”
“You don’t need to. James assembled a team of experts who’ve been managing the properties since he acquired them. They’ve been waiting for you to decide whether to continue the project or dissolve it.”
Marcus pulled out another folder.
“Catherine, there’s something else. Something about the financial projections that James wanted you to understand.”
“What kind of projections?”
“If you operate these properties as affordable housing—with rent controls and tenant protections—you’ll break even financially. No profit but no loss. However, if you were to convert them to market-rate housing in today’s real estate environment…”
He showed me numbers that made my breath catch.
“You’d be looking at returns of approximately twelve to fifteen million annually. James deliberately chose properties that could be extremely profitable if operated without concern for tenant displacement.”
“So he left me a choice. Profit or principles.”
“He left you power. The power to determine whether forty-three million dollars’ worth of real estate serves tenants or investors. Whether two thousand families have housing stability or whether they become casualties of neighborhood gentrification.”
I walked to my office windows, looking out at the street where construction crews were working on yet another luxury development that would house fewer families than the working-class apartments it had replaced. Greenwich was beautiful and prosperous, but even here, housing costs were pricing out the teachers, nurses, and service workers who kept the community functioning.
“Marcus, if I chose to continue James’ plan—operate the properties as affordable housing—what would that actually look like?”
“Community-controlled rent stabilization. Tenant ownership opportunities. Preference for teachers, healthcare workers, and other essential workers. Housing specifically designed to support multigenerational families so that elderly parents can age in place near their children.”
“And the financial sustainability?”
“The properties generate enough rental income to cover maintenance, improvements, and property taxes. You wouldn’t make money, but you wouldn’t lose it either. James structured it so that affordable housing could be economically viable without being economically extractive.”
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