Chapter 3
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
I lay in bed until four a.m., listening to Michael pace the living room.
Every time I got up to check on him, he’d tell me to go back to bed, his voice tight and distant.
At seven a.m., I went downstairs to make coffee.
Diane was still on the couch, passed out, her makeup smudged all over her face.
I stepped over her, avoiding eye contact, and called my mom.
She answered on the first ring.
“Hey, baby,” she said, like we were talking about grocery shopping, not the fact that she’d just blown up my entire family.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine. Slept like a rock. You?”
“Not at all. Michael is a wreck. Diane is passed out on my couch. What do I do?”
My mom sighed.
“First, get Diane out of your house. She doesn’t get to stay there after what she did. Second, give Michael time. He just found out his entire childhood was a lie. That doesn’t go away in a night.”
“He hates you now,” I said, my voice cracking. “He thinks you should have told him sooner.”
“Let him hate me,” my mom said calmly. “Better he hate me for a week than live his whole life thinking his dad was a failure. He’ll come around. You’ll see.”
She hung up before I could argue.
Thirty minutes later, Michael came into the kitchen.
His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes wrinkled.
He didn’t look at me.
“Did you call her?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of black coffee.
“Who? Mom? Yeah. She’s at the Holiday Inn.”
Michael nodded, staring into his mug.
“I need to go through Dad’s old boxes in the attic,” he said. “See if there’s more proof.”
“Okay. I’ll help.”
“No.” He looked up at me, his jaw tight. “I want to do it alone.”
I flinched.
Before I could say anything, Diane stumbled into the kitchen, holding her head.
“Coffee,” she croaked. “And aspirin. My head is killing me.”
Michael didn’t move.
He just stared at her.
“Get out,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
Diane blinked, like she didn’t understand.
“What?”
“Get out of my house. Now. Pack your things and go.”
Diane’s face crumpled.
“Michael, baby, I was drunk! I didn’t mean any of it! Linda put those papers in your head! She’s always hated me!”
“Dad’s handwriting doesn’t lie,” Michael said. “The bank statements don’t lie. You stole from him. You let him work himself to death paying for your mistakes. And then you lied about it for twenty-five years. I don’t want you in my house. I don’t want you around my kids. Get out.”
Diane started screaming again, calling him an ungrateful brat, saying she’d given up everything for him.
Michael didn’t listen.
He walked to the front door, opened it, and pointed outside.
“Now. Or I call the cops and have you removed for trespassing.”
Diane stared at him for a long, tense second.
Then she grabbed her purse off the counter and stormed past him, screaming that he’d regret this, that Linda would pay, that she’d make sure we lost everything.
The door slammed behind her.
The house went quiet.
Michael leaned against the doorframe, his shoulders shaking.
I walked over and put my arms around him.
He didn’t push me away this time.
He collapsed into me, sobbing like a little boy.
“I trusted her,” he whispered into my hair. “My whole life, I trusted her.”
I held him tight, not saying anything.
What could I say?
His whole world had just fallen apart.
Three hours later, he came down from the attic, carrying a stack of old boxes.
He spread their contents out on the living room floor: old bank statements, tax returns, Robert’s work journals.
We went through them together.
It was all there.
The second mortgage, the overtime pay stubs, the letters from the bank threatening foreclosure.
Robert had written in his journal every night.
Page after page about how betrayed he felt, how he wanted to leave Diane, but couldn’t because he didn’t want Michael to grow up in a broken home.
How he’d rather work himself to death than let his son know his mom was a thief.
One entry, dated two days before he died, made me cry.
I gave Linda the envelope today. Told her to only open it if Diane ever hurts my family. She promised. Linda is a good woman. Better than I deserve. If something happens to me, she’ll take care of Michael. She’ll make sure he knows the truth.
Michael read it over my shoulder.
He didn’t cry this time.
His face was hard, cold, like stone.
He pulled out his phone and called Diane.
She answered on the first ring, screaming that she’d hired a lawyer, that she’d sue us for defamation, that Linda would rot in jail for forgery.
Michael didn’t let her finish.
“I saw Dad’s journals,” he said, his voice flat. “I saw the mortgage papers. I saw the overtime stubs. Don’t ever call me again. Don’t come near my house. Don’t call the kids. If I see you within a mile of my family, I will call the cops and press charges for the theft. Do you understand me?”
Diane went silent for a second.
Then she said, cold and calm, “You think you won? You have no idea what I’m capable of, Michael. You think Linda is the good guy here? She’s been lying to you too. Just wait. You’ll see.”
She hung up.
Michael threw his phone across the room, shattering it against the wall.
I jumped.
He looked at me, his eyes wild.
“What did she mean?” he asked. “What else is Mom hiding?”
May you like
I didn’t have an answer.
But I had a sick feeling in my stomach that we were about to find out.
