Chapter 8
Dad came home two weeks later under police protection.
Not to the big house.
To Robert’s guesthouse.
Claire knew too many codes.
Too many habits.
Too many weak places.
I moved in too.
The first night, Dad sat at the kitchen table with a blanket over his shoulders.
He looked older than before the funeral.
Older than death had made him.
“I should have listened to you,” he said.
I poured him tea.
Then froze.
He saw.
“No tea,” he said softly.
We both laughed.
Then cried.
I made coffee instead.
Bad coffee.
He drank it anyway.
We began rebuilding the truth.
Dad told me when Claire took over his finances.
After his heart surgery.
She insisted he needed rest.
She slowly replaced his assistant.
Changed passwords.
Moved meetings.
Told me he was sleeping when he was not.
Told him I was busy when I called.
Created distance.
Distance was the first theft.
Money came after.
I told him how Claire treated me.
How she said I stressed him out.
How she called me selfish for asking questions.
How she made me feel childish for wanting to see him more.
Dad covered his face.
“She was turning us against each other.”
“Yes.”
“I let her.”
“Yes.”
The word hurt him.
May you like
But lies had hurt us more.
We promised not to soften the truth just because it was painful.
