Chapter 4 - My Father’s Version of the Truth
Mom switched off the kitchen light.
“Stay here.”
“No chance.”
Another crash came from below.
I called 911.
A minute later we learned it wasn't our building.
A delivery driver had dropped a glass display case in the neighboring storefront.
Under any other circumstances, it would have been funny.
Nobody laughed.
Margaret called again.
Dad had arrived at her office demanding access to the trust file.
She refused.
“What Carter property?” I asked.
“The house on Hawthorne.”
I knew it immediately.
Dad and Vanessa’s house.
Six bedrooms.
Stone entrance.
Swimming pool.
The home Dad had bought after the divorce and described as proof he had “started from nothing.”
Grandma had financed the original purchase.
Not Dad.
The agreement was collateral against his debt.
And because Dad had apparently made unauthorized withdrawals from my trust, ownership might legally belong to Mom.
Mom looked sick.
“I don’t want his house.”
Margaret said, “Diane, this isn’t about wanting it.”
Dad owed the trust money.
A lot.
By the next morning, the number was clearer.
$173,400.
Dad had used my inheritance for tuition, yes.
But also business expenses.
Car payments.
A failed investment.
And renovations to Hawthorne.
He had spent years presenting those things as evidence of his own success.
The image was financed partly with money intended for me.
I called him.
This time he answered immediately.
“We need to meet.”
“Agreed.”
Mom shook her head.
“Public place,” I added.
Dad suggested his office.
“No.”
We met at a diner.
Mom came.
So did Aunt Carol.
Dad arrived alone.
For ten minutes, he explained.
That’s what he called it.
Explaining.
The business had nearly collapsed.
He had intended to repay everything.
Private school benefited me.
The house had appreciated.
The investments were meant to create more money.
Grandma had been vindictive.
Margaret was overreacting.
Vanessa knew very little.
Every sentence reduced his responsibility by another percentage.
Finally I asked one question.
“Did you take the money?”
He stopped.
“Yes.”
There it was.
“Without permission?”
His eyes moved toward Mom.
“Yes.”
“Did Mom know?”
“No.”
“Did you tell people you were paying my tuition yourself?”
Dad sighed.
“Ethan.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
Mom looked down.
“Did you tell Vanessa to move Mom from the front row?”
“No.”
“Did you say you didn’t want Mom in photographs with your clients?”
He rubbed his face.
“I said the seating needed to be handled.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I was trying to avoid drama.”
Aunt Carol laughed.
“You married it.”
Mom gave her a look.
Carol shrugged.
Dad leaned toward me.
“You think your mother is innocent in all this?”
Mom stiffened.
I said, “Careful.”
“No, Ethan. You want truth? Fine.”
He looked at Mom.
“Tell him why you never took me to court over the trust.”
Mom went pale.
I turned.
“Mom?”
Dad continued.
“Tell him.”
She whispered, “Greg.”
“You wanted truth.”
“Mom?”
She closed her eyes.
“Because he threatened to fight for full custody.”
I stared.
Dad immediately said, “That’s not what happened.”
Mom opened her purse.
She removed an old phone.
“I kept it.”
Dad stopped.
“What?”
“The voicemail.”
She pressed play.
Dad’s younger voice filled the booth.
If you drag my finances into court, Diane, I’ll make sure Ethan knows you’re the reason he doesn’t see his father. And if I have to ask for full custody to protect myself, I will.
Nobody moved.
Dad stared at the phone.
“You recorded me?”
“You left a voicemail.”
His face reddened.
“That was during a fight.”
Mom switched it off.
“You asked why I stayed quiet.”
Dad stood.
“This conversation is over.”
I stood too.
“No. It’s finally starting.”
He looked at me.
For the first time, I didn't see my father as the person who knew more because he was older.
I saw a man cornered by his own decisions.
“I loved you,” I said.
His anger vanished.
“Ethan.”
“I still do.”
That seemed to hurt worse.
“But I don’t know you.”
I left with Mom.
Outside, she cried.
Not loudly.
Never loudly.
I hugged her.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“No more secrets.”
She nodded.
“No more.”
That promise lasted six hours.
At 7:18 p.m., someone delivered a package to our apartment.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph of Mom outside Detroit Receiving Hospital.
Taken two months earlier.
On the back:
ASK DIANE WHY SHE MET WITH GREG’S BUSINESS PARTNER.
Mom stared at it.
I said nothing.
“No more secrets,” she whispered.
“Then tell me.”
She sat down.
“His name is Daniel Reeves.”
“What did he want?”
“To warn me.”
“About what?”
Mom looked at the photograph again.
“Your father was moving money.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why would Daniel tell you?”
“Because he believed some of it was yours.”
My phone rang.
Daniel Reeves.
I had never given him my number.
I answered.
“Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t let your father know I called.”
Too late for that.
“What’s happening?”
Daniel breathed heavily.
“I found the account.”
“What account?”
“The one Greg never told Margaret about.”
I grabbed a pen.
“Give me the number.”
“I can’t over the phone.”
“Then where?”
“My office. Tomorrow morning.”
A sound interrupted him.
A door.
Then Daniel said, “Wait.”
His voice changed.
“What?”
Someone spoke faintly behind him.
Daniel whispered, “He’s here.”
The call ended.
I tried calling back.
Nothing.
Then a text arrived from Daniel’s number.
DON’T COME TOMORROW.
Three seconds later, another message appeared.
THIS IS GREG.
May you like
And then my father sent one final line.
WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT WHAT YOUR MOTHER DID.
