Chapter 4: The Son She Never Mentioned
I had not known Brenda had a son.
In all the years she lived in our house, she had never once mentioned a child of her own.
No photos on the walls.
No phone calls I ever overheard.
No birthday cards on the refrigerator.
Nothing.
"You have a son," I said.
"His name is Derek." She said it flatly, like a fact she had long stopped being proud of.
"He's thirty-four.
We were estranged for most of his twenties.
He came back into my life about four years ago, right around the time your father's health started declining."
"Convenient."
"Yes." She didn't flinch.
"It was."
I crossed my arms.
"Keep going."
"Derek is charming when he wants to be.
Your father liked him.
He started coming around for Sunday dinners, helping with yard work, driving your father to appointments when I couldn't." She paused.
"I thought it was genuine.
I wanted it to be genuine."
"But it wasn't."
"No." Her voice didn't waver, but her jaw tightened.
"About three years ago, your father told me he'd updated his will.
He said Derek had helped him find a lawyer — a friend of Derek's, he said — and that everything had been simplified.
He seemed relieved.
I didn't ask enough questions.
I should have."
"What did the new will say?"
"I didn't see it until eight months ago, when we lost the house." She pulled my coat tighter.
"The mortgage had been refinanced twice without my knowledge.
The equity was gone.
When I finally got a lawyer to look at everything, she told me the property had been signed over through a series of transfers that your father didn't fully understand.
His signature was on documents he couldn't remember signing."
I stared at her.
"Are you telling me Derek stole the house."
"I'm telling you the house is gone and Derek has a property management company in Scottsdale that acquired it." She met my eyes.
"Draw your own conclusion."
My mind was moving fast.
"And the will?"
"The will leaves everything to Derek.
Your father's savings, his life insurance, his remaining assets." She stopped.
"There is a line in it that specifically removes you by name.
It says you predeceased your father."
The porch went very quiet.
"It says I'm de@d," I said.
"Yes."
"I'm standing right here."
"I know that." Her voice cracked for the first time.
"That's why I came."
I turned away from her and looked at the street.
A neighbor's dog was barking somewhere down the block.
A car moved slowly past.
Everything looked completely ordinary and nothing felt ordinary at all.
"Why didn't you go to the police?" I asked without turning around.
"I did.
Three months ago.
They said it was a civil matter.
That without proof of coercion or forgery, there was nothing they could do immediately." She paused.
"My lawyer is working on it.
But it's slow.
And your father is running out of time."
I turned back to face her.
"Does he know?
About the will?
About what Derek did?"
She hesitated just a fraction too long.
"Brenda."
"He knows some of it," she said carefully.
"He knows the house is gone.
He knows Derek was involved.
He doesn't know about the line in the will.
About you." Her eyes dropped.
"I couldn't tell him.
His heart—"
"So he doesn't know his daughter has been declared de@d on paper."
"No."
I looked at her standing there in my coat on my porch, this woman who had ruined the first eighteen years of my life, now asking me to help save the last chapter of my father's.
"Where is Derek now?" I asked.
"Scottsdale, as far as I know.
He stopped returning my calls six months ago.
Right around the time I started asking questions."
I nodded slowly.
"I need you to send me everything.
Every document your lawyer has.
Every bank record.
Every transfer.
Everything."
She blinked.
"You'll help?"
"I didn't say that." I held her gaze.
"I said send me everything.
We'll see what I decide after I've read it."
She nodded quickly.
"I have copies at the shelter.
I can get them tomorrow."
"Tonight," I said.
"I'll drive you."
She looked startled.
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." I stepped back inside to get my keys.
"I'm doing it for my father.
Not for you.
Don't confuse the two."
She didn't say anything.
But when I came back with my keys and my jacket, she was standing straighter than she had been when I opened the door.
On the drive to the shelter, she was quiet for most of it.
Then, as I pulled into the parking lot, she said, "He talks about you, you know.
Your father.
He always has."
I put the car in park.
"Don't."
"He keeps a photo.
In his wallet.
You must have been about twelve."
"Brenda." My voice was level.
"Get the documents."
She got out of the car without another word.
I sat in the dark parking lot and gripped the steering wheel and did not think about a twelve-year-old girl in a photograph in a sick man's wallet.
May you like
I thought about Derek instead.
And what I was going to do about him.
