Chapter 55 - The Offer From Chicago
A publisher contacted me.
Then a producer.
Then another producer.
Apparently Jenna Morales’s reporting had been nominated for an investigative journalism award.
Our old story resurfaced.
Again.
This time, companies wanted rights.
Documentary.
Limited series.
Book.
I laughed so hard Audrey became concerned.
“You okay?”
“No.”
One offer was enormous.
More money than I earned in several years.
They wanted exclusive access.
Interviews with me.
Dad.
Bryn.
Possibly Mom.
They wanted childhood photographs.
Audio.
Letters.
The blue shoebox.
Absolutely not.
I declined.
Then they increased the offer.
I declined again.
Bryn called.
“I heard.”
“How?”
“Mom.”
I sighed.
“How did Mom hear?”
“Dad.”
“Why does Dad know?”
“You told him.”
Family information remains an ecosystem.
Bryn sounded nervous.
“You know I’d say no, right?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
That mattered.
Mom called separately.
“I would also say no.”
“I didn’t ask you either.”
“I know.”
Also mattered.
Then Nico learned the amount.
Teenagers understand money suddenly when the number contains enough zeros.
“You said no?”
“Yes.”
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“That’s college.”
“I know.”
“For both of us.”
“I know.”
“A house.”
“I know.”
He stared at me.
“Why?”
Because it felt like the old project.
Because someone wanted to package our pain.
Because I hated cameras.
Those were real answers.
But not sufficient.
“They wanted control over how the story was told.”
“So?”
“So once we sign, our lives become material.”
Nico folded his arms.
“They already are online.”
That stopped me.
He had a point.
The boys were old enough now to have opinions about a story partly belonging to them.
I had protected them by making choices.
Eventually protection had to include hearing them.
“What do you think?”
He blinked.
“You’re asking?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
Arlo immediately said no.
“Why?”
“I don’t want strangers knowing me.”
Clear.
Nico was less certain.
“What if it helped people?”
I hated the familiar sentence.
He noticed.
“I’m not Grandma.”
“I know.”
“What if we told the real story?”
I took a breath.
“What would the real story be?”
“That everybody messed up.”
Accurate.
“That Dad wasn’t a charity mascot.”
Very accurate.
“That Grandpa got lost.”
My throat tightened.
“That Grandma did bad things and then changed some.”
Mom would hate the phrasing.
It was perfect.
“That Aunt Bryn did crimes.”
“Maybe less direct.”
“She literally did.”
“Yes.”
He continued.
“And that we still went to the ocean.”
There it was.
Not the fraud.
Not the courtroom.
The ocean.
I realized something.
I had been so afraid of other people controlling our story that I had begun treating silence as the only safe form of ownership.
Maybe it wasn’t.
We still declined the documentary.
Arlo’s no was enough.
But I offered Nico another option.
“Write.”
“What?”
“If you want to tell your part, write it.”
“For who?”
“You first.”
He did.
Three pages.
Then twelve.
Then thirty.
Not a memoir.
Mostly fragments.
The cruise checklist.
The dolphins.
Grandpa’s letters.
Biscuit.
Science fair.
A chapter called WHY ADULTS LOVE ENVELOPES.
I laughed until I cried.
He did not publish it.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
That was the point.
The story could exist without being sold.
Months later, the producer contacted us one final time.
I replied:
Thank you. Our answer remains no.
No explanation.
No guilt.
No negotiation.
I pressed send.
Then Nico looked at me.
“Still kind of wish we took the money.”
“Understandable.”
“College is expensive.”
“Extremely.”
Arlo looked up from his homework.
“We could rob a bank.”
I stared.
He shrugged.
“Family tradition?”
Too soon.
May you like
Possibly always too soon.
We laughed anyway.
