I walked over to the bookcase and picked up an old leather-bound copy of Walden, Nicholas’s favorite book, the one he read aloud to me on long winter evenings when the children were asleep. From between the pages, I pulled out a sealed envelope.
“Your father wrote this for you the week before he died,” I said. “I was planning on giving it to you after the funeral, before I knew who you really were.”
Brandon reached out to take it, but I held him back.
“Did you grieve his death?” I asked. “Or were you too busy planning how to profit from his passing?”
A look flashed across his face. Maybe shame. Maybe just annoyance at being caught red-handed.
“I loved Dad very much,” she said.
“You liked what he was offering,” I corrected him. “Security. Prestige. A safety net for your riskiest ventures. What was it this time, Brandon? Another bad investment? Gambling debts?”
His silence was answer enough.
“Your father built something that could have lasted for generations if you’d had the patience to care for it,” I said. I placed the envelope on the dresser. “Instead, you tried to sell it for a quick buck.”
