Chloe believed twelve thousand dollars might keep him afloat.
She had been trying to obtain it from me.
Through my mother.
Using a fabricated abuse narrative.
That night, Maya called.
“Leo.”
“I know that tone.”
“She confessed.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“Everything?”
“Enough.”
I felt no triumph.
Only fatigue.
“They know about my four grand?”
“Yes.”
“And the twelve?”
“Yes.”
“What did Mom say?”
“She cried.”
I looked out the apartment window.
“Dad?”
“Walked out of the room for an hour.”
“Aunt Martha?”
Maya laughed without humor.
“My mother suddenly remembers she always thought Chloe was spoiled.”
“Of course she does.”
Maya became quiet.
“They’re going to contact you.”
“I know.”
“Do you want them to?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the honest answer.
Three days later, Dad texted.
Not one word this time.
A full sentence.
We need to talk. Please come Saturday. Your mother is a wreck.
I almost did not go.
Gabe told me not to.
“You don’t owe them closure.”
“I know.”
“Then why go?”
“Because I owe myself one.”
Saturday afternoon, I drove to my childhood home.
For the first time in my life, I did not feel like a son returning home.
I felt like a guest entering a building containing old evidence.
Dad opened the door.
He looked terrible.
Red eyes.
Unshaven.
“Leo.”
“Dad.”
He stepped aside.
The living room looked different despite being exactly the same.
Mom sat on the sofa.
No makeup.
Hair pulled back.
Chloe sat in the armchair near the window.
Oversized gray sweatpants.
Sweatshirt.
No designer presentation.
No performance.
Maybe that itself was a performance.
I no longer trusted myself to know.
I remained standing.
Dad said:
“You can sit.”
“I’m good.”
Mom started crying almost immediately.
“Leo.”
I waited.
“We know.”
Her voice shook.
“We know everything.”
I said nothing.
“Maya showed us the documents Ethan gave her.”
Still nothing.
“About Julian.”
“The money.”
“The affair.”
She covered her mouth.
“I am so sorry.”
I looked at her.
“For what part?”
The question surprised her.
“All of it.”
“That’s broad.”
“Leo.”
“No, Mom.”
My voice stayed calm.
“I need to know what you’re apologizing for.”
She wiped her face.
“For believing Chloe.”
“That isn’t the worst part.”
Mom stared.
“You were wrong.”
“People are wrong.”
“You didn’t investigate.”
“People make mistakes.”
I stepped closer.
“You attacked me.”
Her face crumpled.
“You called me selfish.”
“A hoarder.”