Chapter 4 - The Father's Truth
My father, Richard, sat at our kitchen table, holding a mug of decaf coffee.
He was sixty-eight years old, his hands slightly trembling from Parkinson's, but his eyes were sharp, clear, and filled with a quiet dignity that neither my mother nor Ila had ever possessed. He had worked thirty years as a high school history teacher and union steward before his diagnosis.
Willa was sitting on the rug nearby, quietly building a Lego house.
"Dad," I said, sitting across from him. "How is your physical therapy going at Ohio Valley?"
Richard smiled softly. "It's good, honey. Three times a week. The VA covers almost all of it, thank goodness. You know me, I don't like being a burden."
I took a deep breath. "Dad... did Mom ever tell you about the St. Jude Community Therapy Fund?"
Dad frowned, setting his coffee cup down. "The church fund? Sure. Your mother mentioned a few folks at church put together a little collections basket every now and then to help pay for my extra leg braces last year. Why?"
"Dad," I said gently, sliding a printed document across the table toward him. "It wasn't a collections basket. It was a formal non-profit account. And it didn't raise a few hundred dollars. It collected over one hundred thousand dollars over four years."
Dad stared at the paper. He pulled his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, put them on, and began reading line by line.
As he read, the color slowly drained from his face. His hands trembled harder, shaking the paper in his grip.
"What is this?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "BMW payments? Kitchen renovations? Nordstrom? Who... who spent this money?"
"Ila and Mom," I said softly.
Dad looked up at me, horror filling his eyes. "Where did this hundred thousand dollars come from, Paige? Did our church members give this much money thinking I was destitute?"
"Eighty-five percent of that money came from me, Dad," I confessed quietly. "I set up twenty-six recurring donor profiles four years ago when Mom told me your insurance wasn't covering your treatment. I wanted you to have everything you needed."
Dad sat frozen, tears filling his weathered eyes. "You... you paid twenty-eight hundred dollars a month for four years?"
"Yes."
"And your mother... your mother gave it to Ila?" Dad’s voice broke into a raspy sob. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking. "My God. My own wife. My own daughter."
I reached across the table and held his trembling hands. "Dad, I didn't tell you this to hurt you. I told you because two days ago, at Autumn's birthday party, Ila and Mom allowed Autumn and Miles to bully Willa. They told Willa that she was poor, that she would 'clean dirt' like me, and that she would never have a house like theirs."
Dad pulled his hands away, his expression transforming from grief into absolute, terrifying fury.
"They said that to my granddaughter?" Dad snapped, standing up from the table, his cane rattling against the floor. "They insulted my sweet Willa in front of a house full of people?"
"Yes," I said. "And they used the money I sent for your care to buy that very house."
Dad stood tall, breathing heavily. He looked over at Willa, who was watching him with wide, curious eyes. Dad walked over to her, crouched down despite his stiff knees, and held her little face in his hands.
"Willa, sweetie," Dad said, his voice thick with emotion. "Your mother is the hardest working, most brilliant woman I know. She built a life out of honesty and sweat. Don't you ever, ever let anyone tell you that you are worth less than them."
Willa smiled, wrapping her arms around her grandfather's neck. "I know, Grandpa. Mom made the best company."
May you like
Dad looked up at me, his eyes burning with resolve.
"Paige," he said firmly. "I want you to call your lawyer. I want an audit of every account your mother has touched since I got sick. And then I want you to drive me home. It's time for a family meeting."
