Chapter 4 - The Television Screen
I called Dad.
He answered on the first ring.
“Where are you?”
“Campus.”
“Stay there.”
“What is Mike doing?”
Dad lowered his voice.
“I don't know yet.”
“You said he brought an attorney.”
“He did.”
“Why?”
“I said I don't know.”
In the background, I heard Uncle Mike.
Then another male voice.
Professional.
Calm.
“Robert, we'd prefer everyone be present.”
I looked at Avery.
She leaned close enough to hear.
Dad said:
“No.”
Then the line went dead.
Avery stood.
“We need to go home.”
“No.”
She stared at me.
“Ethan.”
“Dad said stay here.”
“Since when do you listen to Dad?”
Fair question.
But something felt wrong.
Not dangerous.
Legal.
Money made people strange.
Money people believed belonged to them made them stranger.
I called my attorney.
Rachel Monroe.
Thirty-eight.
Fast-speaking.
Impossible to intimidate.
She had taken my case through a university entrepreneurship clinic when the project was still barely worth anything.
When the licensing offer arrived, I insisted on paying her normal rate.
Best money I ever spent.
She listened while I explained.
“Do not sign anything,” she said.
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Do not verbally agree to anything.”
“Okay.”
“Do not send anyone financial documents.”
“Okay.”
“And do not go into a meeting with their attorney without calling me.”
Avery mouthed:
their attorney?
I nodded.
Rachel asked:
“Does your uncle have any legitimate connection to your invention?”
“No.”
“Did he fund it?”
“No.”
“Provide equipment?”
“No.”
“Employment?”
“No.”
“Ownership interest?”
“No.”
“Then he has nothing.”
I exhaled.
“Why bring a lawyer?”
“To scare an eighteen-year-old.”
That made sense.
Then she added:
“Unless your mother made promises.”
I went quiet.
Avery heard.
Her face changed.
“Could that matter?”
“Depends what she promised, in what capacity, and whether she had any authority. Probably not much. But I want documents.”
I ended the call.
Avery stared at me.
“You have a real lawyer.”
“Yes.”
“You've had a weird year.”
I almost smiled.
She almost did too.
That small moment mattered.
We drove home together the next morning.
Not because Uncle Mike had legal standing.
Because Dad asked us to.
He sounded older on the phone.
Mom had apparently spent the night at a hotel after an argument.
Uncle Mike had left.
His attorney had left.
Dad wanted “everything on the table.”
I hated that phrase.
But Avery said she was going whether I came or not.
So I drove.
The trip felt different from every drive we had taken as kids.
No parents.
No roles.
No Avery getting the front seat because she was older.
No me wearing headphones while she complained about music.
We talked.
Really talked.
For the first time in years.
She told me college had been rough.
She had started as pre-law because Dad thought it sounded impressive.
She hated it.
Changed to marketing.
Then communications.
Then dropped two classes without telling our parents.
Every visit home became a performance.
Mom would ask about grades.
Dad would mention my achievements.
Avery would hear:
Why aren't you Ethan?
I told her I had spent years hearing:
Don't make Avery feel worse.
Two children.
Two different wounds.
Same house.
“Why didn't we ever talk about this?” she asked.
“Would you have listened?”
She thought.
“No.”
“At least you're honest.”
She looked out the window.
“I really did resent you.”
“I know.”
“I thought everything was easier for you.”
“It wasn't.”
“I know that now.”
That was enough.
When we arrived, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table.
The same table where my birthday had been canceled.
There were three folders.
Coffee.
No Mom.
He looked at Avery.
Then me.
“I owe both of you an apology.”
Avery sat.
I remained standing.
Dad didn't ask me to.
“I failed to pay attention.”
He stared at his hands.
“I let your mother manage too much of the family finances because she was better at details. That's what I told myself.”
He gave a humorless laugh.
“Truth is, I didn't want to deal with it.”
He looked at me.
“When she said you understood about the party, I believed her because believing her was easier.”
I said nothing.
“When Avery struggled, I compared her to you because I thought competition would motivate her.”
Avery looked away.
“I was wrong.”
His voice broke.
That surprised all of us.
Dad wasn't a crier.
“I made both of you feel like there was only room for one successful child.”
Avery wiped her cheek.
Dad slid one folder toward us.
“These are account records.”
I opened it.
The numbers were worse than Mom admitted.
Over five years, nearly $27,000 had gone to Uncle Mike.
Some from household money.
Some from us.
Some from an account Dad had intended for a family vacation.
Avery whispered:
“Why?”
Dad shook his head.
“Your mother believes she can save him.”
“From what?” Avery asked.
“Himself.”
The front door opened.
Mom entered.
Nobody had heard her car.
She looked exhausted.
Then she saw us.
“Good. You're all here.”
Dad stood.
“Linda.”
“No, let me talk.”
She placed her handbag on the counter.
“I made mistakes.”
Avery laughed softly.
Mom flinched but continued.
“Michael needed help. I thought I could replace the money before anyone noticed.”
I stared at her.
“You also canceled my birthday to free up money.”
She looked at me.
“Yes.”
It was the first clean admission.
No excuse.
No “family peace.”
Just yes.
Avery folded her arms.
“And you blamed me.”
“I didn't blame you.”
“You told everyone I felt overlooked.”
“You did.”
“That wasn't why you canceled it.”
Mom’s mouth tightened.
“It was part of it.”
“Two problems solved,” I said.
She froze.
Avery had not told her about the emails.
I pulled out the screenshot.
Mom went pale.
“You went through my computer?”
Avery exploded.
“That’s your concern?”
Dad raised his voice.
“Enough.”
We all stopped.
He looked at Mom.
“What did you promise Michael?”
Her face emptied.
There it was.
Rachel had been right.
Dad repeated:
“What did you promise him?”
Mom sat.
Years seemed to appear on her face.
“When Ethan’s project started getting attention, Michael saw an article.”
My stomach tightened.
“How long ago?”
“State competition.”
Nearly a year.
“He asked whether Ethan had investors.”
“I didn't.”
“I know.”
“What did you tell him?”
Mom stared at the table.
“That if Ethan ever made real money from the project... we would make sure he remembered who supported him.”
I laughed.
Avery whispered:
“You didn't support him.”
Mom looked at her sharply.
“I raised him.”
“So did Dad,” Avery said. “Dad isn't asking for a percentage.”
Mom’s voice hardened.
“This family gave Ethan everything.”
I looked at her.
The old guilt mechanism.
There it was.
Everything.
Food.
House.
School supplies.
Basic parenting converted into debt.
“What percentage?”
She didn't answer.
Dad stared.
“Linda.”
“Michael suggested ten.”
Avery's jaw dropped.
“Ten percent?”
Mom rushed to explain.
“He said if Ethan created something while living here, family resources contributed.”
I stared at her.
“What family resources?”
“Electricity. Internet. Your room. Transportation.”
For a second, no one spoke.
Then Avery laughed.
Not politely.
Not softly.
She laughed until tears came.
Mom looked offended.
“You think this is funny?”
“Yes,” Avery said. “He wants ten percent because Ethan used Wi-Fi?”
Mom flushed.
“That isn't what I meant.”
Dad pushed the folder away.
“This is insane.”
Mom looked at me desperately.
“I never signed anything.”
“Did Mike?”
She hesitated.
“He drafted something.”
My attorney had predicted intimidation.
But this was worse.
“Did you sign anything on my behalf?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Certain.
I believed her.
Dad said:
“Then this ends.”
Mom looked toward him.
“Michael says—”
“I don't care what Michael says.”
It may have been the first time Dad had ever said that to her.
The room changed.
Mom stared.
“He's my brother.”
“And they're your children.”
She recoiled.
Avery closed her eyes.
Dad continued.
“You took money from both of them. You lied to me. You used Avery to justify hurting Ethan. And now your brother thinks he owns part of our son's future.”
Mom whispered:
“Our son.”
Dad looked at her.
“Yes. Our son. Not our investment.”
I wanted to leave.
Not because I was angry.
Because this wasn't mine to fix.
I stood.
Mom looked panicked.
“Ethan, please.”
“I have to go.”
“We're finally talking.”
“You're finally talking.”
She flinched.
“There's a difference.”
I picked up my keys.
Avery followed me toward the hallway.
Then Dad said:
“Wait.”
His voice had changed.
He opened the third folder.
“I found something else last night.”
I stopped.
Dad removed an old document.
Not a bank statement.
Not an email.
A beneficiary form.
My name was printed at the top.
Dad looked at Mom.
She sat completely still.
“What is that?” Avery asked.
Dad turned the paper around.
It was connected to a trust Grandma had created before she died.
A trust I had never known existed.
May you like
And beside the line marked AUTHORIZED WITHDRAWAL, someone had signed my name.
The signature wasn't mine.
