Chapter 6
I slept in my car that night.
Not because I had nowhere to go.
Because every house felt like a lie.
Tasha knocked on my window at 6:30 in the morning with two coffees and a face that said she hadn’t slept either.
“You look terrible,” she said.
I took the cup.
“You always know what to say.”
She climbed into the passenger seat.
For a while, we sat in silence.
Then she said, “I looked up trust theft.”
I closed my eyes.
“Tasha.”
“No. Listen.”
“I can’t do legal stuff right now.”
“You have to.”
I looked at her.
She held up her phone.
“If the money was legally yours, there are records. Settlement records. Court records. Maybe guardianship filings. You need to know exactly what happened.”
“She admitted it.”
“People admit pieces.”
That sounded too grown.
Too bitter.
I hated that my little sister had to grow up overnight because of this.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Talk to a lawyer.”
I laughed without humor.
“With what money?”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“You might have two hundred eighty thousand reasons.”
By noon, Aunt Cheryl had connected me with a lawyer named Vivian Brooks.
She was sharp-eyed, calm, and did not waste words.
We met in her office downtown.
I told her everything.
The birth certificate.
The letter.
The settlement.
The house.
The admission.
She listened.
Then she asked, “Do you want punishment or truth?”
I sat back.
“What’s the difference?”
“Punishment is criminal. Truth is records, accounting, recovery. You may end up with both, but you need to know what you’re asking for before the system decides for you.”
I thought of my mother crying at the kitchen table.
My father’s anger.
Denise’s letter.
The house.
“I want to know what was mine.”
Vivian nodded.
“Then we start with probate and settlement records.”
Within two days, she had more than I expected.
The settlement had been $280,000.
After attorney fees, $214,000 was placed under a guardianship account for my benefit.
Patricia Robinson had been appointed guardian of my estate.
Not adoptive mother.
Guardian.
Annual accounting was required.
None had been filed after year three.
Vivian placed the documents in front of me.
“By law, she should have petitioned for any major withdrawal.”
“Did she?”
“Some early ones. Medical care. Childcare. Reasonable expenses.”
“And after that?”
Vivian’s mouth tightened.
“No.”
My chest felt hollow.
“How much was left when I turned eighteen?”
“If invested conservatively and untouched? Likely over $300,000.”
I looked away.
That number didn’t feel real.
It wasn’t a car.
Or shoes.
Or a phone.
It was college without loans.
A down payment.
Freedom.
Choices I never knew I had.
Vivian leaned forward.
“Andre, you need to understand something. Financial betrayal by a caregiver is still betrayal, even if they also loved you.”
I nodded.
But the words went in slowly.
That evening, I went back to my parents’ house.
My mother was on the porch.
She stood when she saw me.
I handed her copies of the records.
Her face crumpled.
“I hired a lawyer,” I said.
She nodded like she had expected it.
“Okay.”
“I’m not doing this because I don’t love you.”
That broke her.
She covered her mouth.
“I know.”
“I’m doing it because Denise loved me too.”
My mother sobbed then.
I wanted to comfort her.
May you like
I didn’t.
Not yet.
