Chapter 3 - The Mirage of the Golden Boy
The piece of paper my father placed on the table was yellowed at the edges,
its folds worn soft by years of being opened and closed in secret.
It was a copy of my grandfather's original will,
dated thirty-five years ago.
Danny reached out,
his hand trembling as he picked it up to read the faded typewriting.
"Clause Four,"
Danny read aloud,
his voice echoing in the vast,
silent room.
"'In the event that my daughter Helen does not produce a lawful heir by her thirtieth birthday,'"
"'her portion of the trust shall revert entirely to my daughter Linda and her descendants.'"
Danny stopped reading.
He looked up at our mother,
his eyes wide with realization.
"You were twenty-nine when Myra was born,"
Danny said,
the words coming out slow and heavy.
"You weren't just adopting a baby to help Aunt Linda."
"You were buying an heir so you wouldn't lose your inheritance."
My mother stood rigid,
refusing to answer.
Her eyes were fixed on the chandelier above us,
her mouth set in a hard,
unforgiving line.
"Answer him,
Helen,"
my father said softly.
"He deserves to know."
"It was my money!"
my mother suddenly shrieked,
her voice breaking the eerie calm of the dining room.
"Father had no right to punish me because my body wouldn't work!"
"Linda was his favorite,"
"always his favorite!"
"She was young,"
"careless,"
"and she got pregnant by some boy from the docks!"
"Why should she get everything while I was left with nothing?"
"So you took her baby,"
I said,
my voice cold as ice.
"You took me to secure your trust fund."
"I gave you a life!"
my mother insisted,
turning her rage toward me.
"You would have been raised in a trailer park in upper Michigan!"
"Instead,"
"you grew up in this house!"
"You went to private schools!"
"You had everything!"
"I had a suitcase,"
I reminded her,
standing up slowly from my chair.
"I had a blue suitcase that reminded me every summer that I didn't belong here."
"And when Danny was born,"
I continued,
"your real heir arrived."
"The biological son who made me completely obsolete."
Danny lowered the yellowed paper onto the table,
his face dark with an emotion I had never seen in him before.
All my life,
Danny had been the Golden Boy.
He had been the center of our universe,
the fragile child who survived cancer,
the brilliant young man who got the ivy league degree,
the son who could do no wrong.
Now,
he looked like a man who had discovered his entire life was built on quicksand.
"When I got sick,"
Danny said,
his voice dangerously quiet,
"was that real,
Mom?"
"Of course it was real!"
my mother cried out,
reaching toward him.
"Danny,"
"my darling,"
"you had acute leukemia!"
"We almost lost you!"
"I spent every night by your bedside in that hospital!"
"Then why,"
Danny asked,
pointing at the private investigator's report,
"does this document say that the medical trust fund created for my treatments was drained of three hundred thousand dollars more than the hospital bills ever cost?"
The room fell completely silent once again.
My father took a deep breath,
leaning forward with his hands on the table.
"Because your mother used your illness as a cover,"
my father explained gently.
"She claimed the treatments were experimental,"
"that we had to pay specialists in Boston and New York out of pocket."
"In reality,"
"she was using that money to buy out Linda's legal claims to the grandfather's estate,"
"paying her off month by month so Linda would never go to court to reclaim Myra."
I turned to look at Aunt Linda.
"Is that true?"
I asked.
"Did you take her money?"
Aunt Linda closed her eyes,
tears streaming freely down her face now.
"I used every cent of that money to build the house in Michigan,
Myra,"
Linda confessed,
her voice breaking.
"I built a room for you."
"A room with a big window overlooking the lake,"
"with bookshelf space for all your stories,"
"and a bed that was always made,"
"waiting for June."
"I took her money because it was the only way I could afford to keep that house,"
"to keep a home ready for you whenever she decided she didn't want you anymore."
"I was terrified that if I didn't take it,"
"she would move you far away,"
"somewhere I could never find you."
I stood between them,
the two women who had written the script of my life before I was even old enough to speak.
One had traded me for money and pride.
The other had bought pieces of my life back three months at a time.
"You used us,"
Danny said to our mother,
his voice trembling with pure disgust.
"You used my illness to steal money,"
"you used Myra as a prop until I was born,"
"and then you threw her away like trash!"
"I did it for this family!"
my mother screamed,
tears finally spilling over her painted cheeks.
"Everything I did,"
"I did to keep us whole!"
"You didn't keep us whole,"
I said,
stepping around the table toward the front door.
May you like
"You broke us into pieces twenty-nine years ago,"
"and you've been hiding the glass under the rug ever since."
