Chapter 8 - Sifting Through the Ruins
We didn't stay at the café. Within an hour, the room had emptied of relatives who were too uncomfortable to offer platitudes. Only Aunt Valerie, Uncle Thomas, Laura, Brian, and my mother remained.
We sat in the private living room of Aunt Valerie’s house in Mercer Island, drinking black coffee from porcelain mugs that nobody touched.
The truth came out in waves over the next three hours. Laura sat beside me on the sofa, her hand clasped in mine so tightly her knuckles were white.
“I’m canceling the wedding at the Harbor Club,” Laura said, her voice hoarse from crying. “Brian and I are going to the courthouse next month. We don't want a reception. We don't want flowers. I feel sick even looking at white dresses.”
“You don't have to cancel your wedding, Laura,” I murmured, leaning my head against her shoulder. “You didn't know.”
“I should have known,” she sobbed. “I should have asked why Dad always gave me checks from different accounts. I should have noticed that you were wearing the same winter coat for five seasons while he bought me designer handbags for Christmas. I was so selfish, Nancy. I wanted to believe he was Prince Charming because it made my life easy.”
“He was our father,” I told her gently. “We were supposed to trust him. He weaponized our trust.”
Aunt Valerie walked in from the kitchen, holding a folder of papers. “Thomas and I just spoke with Arthur, the family attorney. Richard didn't just spend Nancy’s money. He took a second mortgage against Helen’s inheritance trust three years ago by forging her power of attorney.”
My mother sat in the armchair across from us, staring blankly at the cold fireplace. She didn't cry anymore. Her tears had dried into chalky streaks on her cheeks. “The house is gone, isn't it?”
“The house will have to be sold to satisfy the federal liens,” Uncle Thomas said quietly. “There’s no saving it, Helen. But you won't be homeless. Valerie and I have the guest house out back. You’ll move in there. We’ll take care of you.”
Helen looked up, her gaze settling on Michael, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, quietly organizing legal documents on his phone.
“Michael,” Helen said softly.
Michael looked up. “Yes, Mrs. Collins?”
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“Thank you,” she whispered, her lips trembling. “Thank you for protecting my daughter when her own father would have bled her dry until there was nothing left of her.”
Michael didn't offer empty words. He walked over, knelt by her chair, and took her cold hand. “Nancy has spent her life being everyone’s shield, Mrs. Collins. From now on, she gets to be protected, too.”
