Chapter 7 - The Front Page
Two months later, the Chicago Tribune published a major Sunday feature profile on national investigative journalists reshaping civil rights law.
My face was on the cover of the Sunday Metro section—a professional, striking portrait taken in our newsroom. The article detailed my journey from local reporting to winning the Pulitzer Prize, highlighting the courage it took to expose government corruption despite personal and systemic obstacles.
On the morning it was published, my father called me.
He was sitting in his car in the driveway of their Maple Grove home.
"I bought twenty copies of the paper at the gas station this morning, Em," Dad said, his voice choking with emotion. "I... I read the whole thing. Twice."
"Thanks, Dad," I said softly, sitting on my balcony with a cup of coffee.
"I framed one," he admitted, his breath catching in his throat. "I put it right in the center of the living room mantel. Right in front of everything else."
I felt a slight sting in my eyes, but my voice remained calm. "What did Mom say?"
"She tried to take it down," Dad said, his tone shifting into something hard and unfamiliar. "She went to move it behind the angel. And for the first time in forty years, Emily... I told her if she touched it, I would pack my bags and leave."
Silence lingered between us on the line, heavy with forty years of unspoken regret.
"Did she touch it?" I asked.
May you like
"No," Dad whispered. "It's still sitting right in the middle."
"I'm glad you finally spoke up, Dad," I told him, looking out over the Chicago skyline. "But you don't have to fight her for my sake anymore. My picture has been in the right place in my own mind for a long time now."
