Chapter 6 - MY MOTHER’S CONFESSIONMy father spent that night in a hotel.
Not jail.
Not yet.
Because despite the yelling, threats, and pounding on Brooke’s car, he hadn’t physically assaulted her.
The police documented the incident.
Brooke requested that he leave.
Dad eventually complied.
But my mother’s confession followed us home.
Since the beginning.
Those three words sat between us in my living room like a loaded weapon.
Mom sat on the edge of my couch.
Brooke occupied the chair opposite her.
Margaret stood near the fireplace.
Jonathan had advised me not to conduct an interrogation.
I wasn’t interested in interrogating anybody.
I wanted one answer.
Why?
Mom twisted a tissue between her fingers.
“Your father was terrified.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.”
“The business was failing.”
“So he stole.”
“He intended to repay it.”
“From my children.”
“He never thought of it that way.”
“I don’t care how he thought of it.”
Mom flinched.
Brooke stared at the floor.
I continued.
“You knew Daniel discovered the transfers?”
“Yes.”
“And Daniel confronted you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
Mom started crying.
“I asked him for time.”
“How much?”
“Six months.”
“And when the money wasn’t returned?”
“Your father kept saying a sale was coming.”
“What sale?”
“One of the stores.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“He borrowed more.”
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
“Not at first.”
“But eventually.”
“Yes.”
“How much did you approve?”
Mom’s head snapped up.
“What?”
“There are transactions marked C.W. approved.”
Her face changed.
Brooke looked at her.
“Mom?”
“That isn’t what it sounds like.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
Mom stood.
“I never took money.”
“Sit down.”
The firmness in my voice surprised her.
She sat.
“What did you approve?”
She swallowed.
“Accounting entries.”
“Fake invoices?”
“I didn’t know they were fake.”
Brooke made a sound of disbelief.
“You worked in Dad’s office for twenty-two years.”
Mom snapped, “I trusted my husband.”
“And helped him steal from ours,” I said.
Silence.
Mom’s eyes filled.
“That’s not fair.”
“What part?”
“I loved Daniel.”
I laughed once.
It sounded terrible.
“Daniel begged you to make Dad repay money stolen from his children.”
“I tried.”
“You attended Brooke’s birthday instead of Daniel’s funeral.”
Mom covered her face.
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
I stood.
“Daniel died knowing you had protected Dad.”
She began sobbing harder.
“He didn’t hate you,” I said. “He was hurt by you.”
That landed.
Mom lowered her hands.
“He wrote about me?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“No.”
She stared.
“No?”
“You don’t get his private words now because you’re curious.”
“Emma, please.”
“No.”
Brooke looked up.
For once, she didn’t defend Mom.
Mom wiped her face.
“Why did you let me come here?”
“To hear the truth once.”
“And now?”
“Now you leave.”
She stared at me.
“You’re throwing me out?”
“Yes.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“Home.”
“Your father is there.”
“That sounds like a marriage problem.”
Her face hardened slightly.
There she was.
The mother I knew.
“You enjoy this.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“You finally have the power, and you enjoy punishing us.”
Brooke whispered, “Mom, stop.”
“No.”
Mom stood.
“I made mistakes. Your father made mistakes. But Emma has always wanted to prove she was better than this family.”
I felt something inside me become calm.
Not numb.
Clear.
“When I was eleven, Brooke got a solo at the school recital.”
Mom blinked.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I got first place in the county science fair the same evening.”
Brooke looked at me.
I continued.
“Dad went to her recital. You promised to come to my award ceremony.”
Mom said nothing.
“You arrived when they were stacking chairs.”
“That was twenty-five years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you bringing it up?”
“Because you said I always wanted to prove I was better.”
I walked closer.
“I never wanted to be better. I wanted you to show up once when choosing me cost you something.”
Her expression collapsed.
“You chose Brooke’s recital.”
“That was different.”
“You chose her college graduation dinner instead of my commissioning ceremony.”
“Your father—”
“You chose her engagement party instead of visiting me after surgery.”
Brooke whispered, “What surgery?”
I ignored her.
“And finally, you chose her birthday over three funerals.”
Mom’s mouth trembled.
“That wasn’t about loving her more.”
“Maybe not.”
I opened the front door.
“But it was always about assuming I’d forgive you.”
She stared at the doorway.
I didn’t move.
Eventually, Mom picked up her purse.
Before stepping outside, she turned.
“Your father could go to prison.”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean nothing to you?”
“It means he may finally experience consequences.”
“You’d do that to your own father?”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“He did it to himself.”
She left.
The door closed.
Brooke remained seated.
I looked at her.
“You too.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
She stood slowly.
Then stopped beside the photographs.
“I really am sorry I wasn’t at the funeral.”
I didn’t respond.
“I know sorry doesn’t fix it.”
“No.”
She wiped her eyes.
“I didn’t understand what I was doing.”
“That’s worse, Brooke.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
I looked at her.
“You were thirty years old, not thirteen. You knew three people were being buried. You just didn’t think I would ever stop tolerating being second.”
Her face turned red.
“You’re right.”
That surprised me.
Brooke had spent her entire life treating apology like losing.
She took a breath.
“I thought Mom and Dad choosing me meant I was special.”
I waited.
“It didn’t.”
“What did it mean?”
“That they taught me I never had to become decent.”
Margaret looked at her.
Brooke gave a bitter laugh.
“I’m figuring that out late.”
She moved toward the door.
“Brooke.”
She turned.
“Are you going back to work for Dad?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the FBI called me this afternoon.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
She nodded.
“They want to talk about Westbridge.”
“You already spoke to them?”
“Tomorrow.”
Jonathan had told me federal involvement was possible because some transactions crossed state lines and involved electronic fraud.
I hadn’t expected it so quickly.
“What are you going to say?”
“The truth.”
She opened the door.
Then looked back.
“Even if it sends him to prison.”
After she left, Margaret sat beside me.
“You believe her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to?”
That was harder.
“I want Sophie back.”
Margaret took my hand.
“And Caleb.”
“Yes.”
“And Daniel.”
“Yes.”
She squeezed.
“Everything else is smaller.”
That night, I slept for nearly seven hours.
The longest stretch since the accident.
The next morning, Jonathan called.
The federal investigation had expanded.
My father’s loans weren’t merely secured by forged documents.
Investigators had found multiple questionable guarantees.
One involved my name.
Another involved Mom.
And a third involved someone who had been dead for nearly six months.
Daniel.
My father had used my dead husband’s identity to secure credit after his funeral.
But what investigators discovered next was worse.
Daniel’s forged signature appeared on a document dated twelve days after his death.
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And the witness to that signature?
My mother.
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