I told my son his father just died. He said, «It’s my wife’s birthday». Weeks later! He got a letter from my lawyer . He read it and froze…

Behind him was Megan, sitting in their car, idling in the driveway, like she was ready to drive off the second it got uncomfortable, which told me everything before he even opened his mouth. Mom, he said, and I stepped aside without a word, leading him into the living room where Gerald’s chair still sat untouched, a silent monument to everything Nathan had ignored. I offered him coffee out of habit, but he declined, fidgeting on the edge of the couch, like he was waiting for a commercial break so he could escape.

And when he finally spoke, it was with a strained sort of politeness. Megan thinks I should have come sooner, and she’s probably right. And I wanted to laugh, because of course she was the one who told him.

Of course it took her permission, not love or guilt or a conscience, just her saying, go fix it like it was a PR issue. I nodded slowly and sat across from him, my phone already recording from the pocket of my cardigan, because I didn’t trust myself to remember every lie, every deflection, and I didn’t trust him not to gaslight me about this moment later, especially not after what I’d found in Gerald’s files. Did you know your father tried to call you the night before he died? I asked, watching his face for the flinch, and it came.

A slight twitch in his jaw, followed by a defensive shrug. I had my phone on silent. We were out for dinner.

Megan planned this surprise thing, and he caught himself mid-sentence. Like he realized how ridiculous it sounded. And I just let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable enough that he started filling it with more half-formed excuses.

I meant to call him back, I did, but I didn’t know it was serious. He never said anything about being sick. You didn’t either.

And I kept my expression neutral, because I didn’t want him to see how much that line hurt, how quickly. He tried to shift the blame onto me, like it was my fault he didn’t show up. Like Gerald’s death was a scheduling error we all shared responsibility for.

He wasn’t sick, Nathan. He had a heart attack at the breakfast table. Five minutes after joking about the coffee creamer, I said flatly.

And he looked away, rubbing his forehead like this conversation was a burden. Like I was making things worse by refusing to smooth it over. Then I leaned forward and said it plainly.

I found the transfers, and his whole body stiffened like I’d dropped a match onto gasoline. What transfers? He said too quickly, too loudly, and I didn’t bother to ease him into it. The ones from Dad’s account to yours, Megan’s medical bills, your vacation, the rent shortfall.

Don’t lie to me, Nathan, not now. And he had the audacity to look offended. Those were loans, Mom.

We were going through a rough patch, Dad offered. And that’s when I handed him the folded yellow letter, the one Gerald wrote but never sent. The one where he told Nathan that if he lied again, the money would stop.

He read it in silence, then folded it back up like it wasn’t the most damning piece of evidence of who he’d become, and said, he didn’t mean that. And I realized I wasn’t talking to my son anymore, not the boy who used to fall asleep on Gerald’s chest during Sunday football. Not the teenager who helped build his father’s shed in the backyard, but a man who had learned how to rationalize his own betrayal.

And I felt nothing but cold, sharp clarity. This wasn’t someone who made a mistake. This was someone who had made a choice over and over to prioritize his own comfort over our family.

And now he was here because Megan had told him to salvage what was left. I stood up, walked to the door, and said, I’ll let you know if I need anything from you. And he looked like he wanted to say something…