Chapter 5 - The Confrontation at the Cul-de-Sac
An hour later, my husband Derek drove my father, Derek, and me to Ila’s house in the cul-de-sac.
The balloon arch from Autumn's party was still standing on the front porch, slightly deflated, swaying in the afternoon breeze. Ila's black BMW was parked in the driveway beside my mother's sedan.
Dad didn't wait for us to open his car door. He grabbed his walking cane, stepped out onto the driveway, and marched up the front steps with a purpose he hadn't shown in years.
I rang the doorbell.
A moment later, Ila opened the door, holding a glass of iced coffee. When she saw Dad standing on her porch flanked by Derek and me, her face turned instantly pale.
"Dad?" Ila stammered, backing up. "What... what are you doing here? You're supposed to be resting—"
"Get your mother," Dad said, his voice low, deep, and dangerous.
"Dad, what's going on?" Ila asked nervously, looking past him at me with pure venom. "Paige, what did you tell him? Did you bring him here to stress him out?"
"I SAID GET YOUR MOTHER!" Dad roared, his cane slamming against the hardwood floor of the entryway.
My mother came running out of the kitchen, wearing a cashmere sweater and pearl earrings. "Richard! What on earth is all this screaming about?!"
Dad pulled the printed bank ledgers out of his jacket pocket and threw them directly at my mother’s feet. The papers scattered across the pristine hardwood floor.
"Read them, Carol!" Dad demanded, his voice echoing through the open-concept house. "Read the receipts for your daughter's luxury kitchen! Read the receipts for her German car! Read the receipts for your country club dues!"
My mother looked down at the papers, her jaw dropping. She looked at me, her eyes filled with frantic rage. "Paige! How dare you invade our privacy! How dare you bring these fake documents into your sister's home!"
"They're not fake, Mom," I said, stepping into the foyer. "Those are certified bank ledgers from St. Jude's non-profit account. Obtained by my corporate legal team."
Ila gasped. "Corporate legal team? What are you talking about?! You run a carpet cleaning service!"
Derek stepped forward, smiling coldly. "We run Apex Facilities Management, Ila. We manage three commercial regions, employ one hundred and fifty people, and gross fourteen million dollars a year. We don't clean carpets. We own the contracts for half the commercial skyscrapers in downtown Columbus."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Ila stared at Derek, then at me, her brain desperately trying to process the revelation. "Fourteen... fourteen million?"
"And for four years," I continued, "I was the anonymous donor funding twenty-eight hundred dollars a month into Dad's therapy fund. I gave you over one hundred thousand dollars, Ila. And you used it to buy this house, pay your mortgage, and then invite my daughter over so your kids could tell her she was trash."
My mother stepped forward, her face turning bright red. "Richard, listen to me! It was for the family! Ila needed help getting established! Paige didn't need the money, she was doing fine!"
"SHE WAS DOING FINE BECAUSE SHE WORKED FOR IT!" Dad shouted, tears streaming down his cheeks. "You stole from me! You stole from your own daughter! You built a house of lies and used my illness as an excuse to beg for money!"
Autumn walked into the hallway from the living room, holding her iPad, looking frightened. "Mommy? Why is Grandpa yelling?"
Dad looked at Autumn, then at Ila.
"Ila," Dad said, his voice cold and unwavering. "You have thirty days to sell this house and return every single dollar you stole from that fund back to Paige. If you don't, I will personally sign the legal complaint with the county prosecutor for non-profit fraud."
"Dad, no!" Ila shrieked, falling to her knees on the floor. "I can't sell this house! We just moved in! My kids go to school here!"
"Then you should have thought about your kids before you taught them to be cruel to mine!" Dad declared.
He turned his back on them, grabbed his cane, and walked out the door toward our car.
May you like
I looked down at my mother, who was sitting on the stairs, sobbing into her hands.
"You said my daughter would never have a house like this, Ila," I said softly, looking around the bright, hollow living room. "You were right. Willa will never have a house built on stolen money."
