Chapter 15 - THE RIDE HOME
By winter, Dad had turned eighty.
His house was still his.
That was the simplest and most important outcome.
The fraudulent loan never funded.
He placed a credit freeze on his accounts, moved financial paperwork to a professional adviser, and changed the way anyone accessed his records.
Including me.
Especially me.
He said after what happened, love and financial control needed to remain separate whenever possible.
I agreed.
Mark's situation moved more slowly.
His employment was gone.
Waverly Partners collapsed.
The civil and regulatory consequences continued through lawyers and formal processes.
The criminal investigation had not turned into some instant television ending, and Dad stopped asking me for updates unless something directly affected him.
“I've already donated enough years to Mark's bad decisions,” he said.
Our legal separation remained in place.
Mark began therapy on his attorney's suggestion, though whether he went for himself or for how it might eventually look to others was something I refused to decide for him.
He sent Dad a letter.
Dad didn't answer.
He didn't throw it away either.
As for me, I moved from the bedroom Mark and I had shared into the smaller room overlooking the backyard.
At first it felt temporary.
Eventually it began to feel like mine.
The strangest change was practical.
I bought another car after my Honda finally gave up for good.
Nothing expensive.
A three-year-old Subaru with too many miles and heated seats Dad pretended not to enjoy.
Three months after the hospital appointment, his cardiologist scheduled another follow-up.
This time Dad called me first.
“Don't get dramatic. I need a ride.”
“I know.”
“And don't take the whole day off.”
“Dad.”
“I mean it.”
At seven-thirty that morning, I pulled into his driveway.
He came outside wearing a tan jacket and carrying an envelope.
Mark's handwriting was on it.
I looked at the envelope.
Dad noticed.
“Third letter.”
“Have you read any?”
“No.”
“You going to?”
“Maybe.”
He opened the passenger door.
Then paused.
“The first time I forgive him, if I ever do, needs to be because forgiveness is good for me.”
I waited.
“Not because he needs something.”
He got inside.
I drove us toward Riverside Methodist.
The same route.
The same hospital.
Almost the same appointment.
But this time there was no husband in my kitchen telling me my father was somebody else's problem.
No hidden loan file moving through Columbus while Dad sat under fluorescent lights.
No one waiting for him to become tired enough, old enough, or confused enough that his word would count less.
At a red light, Dad tapped the envelope against his knee.
Then he tucked it into the glove compartment.
He didn't open it.
He didn't throw it away.
When the light changed, he pointed ahead.
“Green, Sarah.”
“I see it.”
“Just checking.”
I laughed and drove on.
Whether Dad would ever read Mark's letters was something I no longer needed to solve.
May you like
For once, the decision could remain exactly where it belonged.
With him.
