I read the letters. A chronicle of lies spanning a lifetime. There were no “mobsters.” There were no “serious people” in ’85.
There was only Greg. My son, who at seventeen, realized he could use his mother’s love as a weapon. He saw it worked, and he turned it into a career.
He built his life on her fear. He bought his cars, his vacations, and his watches with the money she scraped together while she wore old coats and skipped the dentist. He looked her in the eye every Thursday and took the envelope, playing the victim.
I felt physically sick. I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up. I washed my face with freezing water.
I looked at myself in the mirror. A gray-faced old man with eyes full of shadows.
“Well, Greg,” I whispered to the reflection. “You wanted the high life? You’re going to get it. I’m going to give you a finale you’ll never forget.”
I went back to the kitchen and picked up the phone. I called my daughter.
“Susan? Are you awake?”
“Dad? It’s three in the morning. Is everything okay? Is it your blood pressure?” Susan’s voice was thick with sleep.
“I’m fine. Listen to me carefully.”
“Tomorrow, I want everyone here. You, Mike, the kids. And call Greg. Tell him I’m calling a family meeting about the estate.”
“Dad, can’t it wait? We’re all still grieving.”
“Tomorrow, Susan. Six o’clock. Tell Greg I’ve decided to sign over the lake house and the deed to this place. Tell him to bring his ID.”
“You’re… you’re giving it all to him?” Susan’s voice was hurt.
She was used to Greg being the favorite. “Just be here, honey. You’ll understand everything.”
I hung up. Now came the hard part. I didn’t sleep. I sat at the table and wrote.
Not a will. I wrote the script for the final act. I laid out the evidence. The notebook. The security stills.
I printed them out on Eleanor’s old printer. Greg’s letters. I found an old photo of us. The three of us at the beach. Happy, tanned. Greg laughing on my shoulders.
I clicked my lighter. I held the flame to the corner of the photo. Greg burned first. Then Eleanor. Then me.
The ash fell into the sink. I washed it away.
“Tomorrow is Thursday, Greg. Payday. And you’re going to get your last envelope.”
I spent the day preparing like I was going into battle. I shaved until my skin was smooth, though it felt like parchment. I put on my best suit, the dark gray wool one I’d bought for my retirement party ten years ago.
It hung loose on me. I’d withered in the last few days. But I tied my tie tight, the knot firm against my throat. It helped me stay focused.
The house was quiet and sterile. I’d cleared the dining table. No lace cloth, no bowls of nuts. Just the bare, polished wood, cold and dark.
In the center of the table, I placed the blue notebook. To the right, the stack of letters. To the left, the security photos. And at the edge, where Greg would sit, I placed a thick white envelope. Bulging. Exactly like the ones Eleanor carried for forty years.
Susan arrived first, at five-forty-five. She was always early, a habit of a woman who didn’t want to let anyone down. She saw my suit and the documents on the table and froze.
“Dad? Why are you dressed up? And why is the table so… clinical?”
“Sit down, honey. Have some tea. Everything is fine.”
Susan sat on the edge of her chair, clutching her purse. “Dad, if you’re giving the house to Greg, it’s okay. I don’t need it. We’re doing fine with the mortgage. I just want you to be happy.”
I looked at her and my heart ached. My daughter. The honest one. The one who always took the back seat. “Greg needs it more,” we’d always said. Greg needs the new bike. Greg needs the college fund. Greg needs the help.
“You don’t understand, Susan,” I said softly. “Tonight isn’t about giving things away. It’s about settling the bill.”
At six-oh-five, Greg burst in. He didn’t knock; he had his own key. He walked in like he owned the place, smelling of expensive tobacco and leather.
He was wearing a cashmere overcoat and Italian shoes that probably cost three of Susan’s paychecks.
“Alright, Pop, what’s the big rush?” He didn’t even take off his coat. “I had to cancel a dinner. I hope the paperwork is ready.”
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