Chapter 8
Five years passed by like a gentle, quiet breeze,
bringing more gray to my hair and deeper lines to my face.
But they were incredibly happy years, entirely free of drama,
filled with quiet mornings and wonderfully peaceful nights.
My holding companies continued to generate massive, quiet wealth,
which I secretly funneled into local charities and scholarships.
I had no desire to leave a massive inheritance behind anymore,
not after seeing what pure greed had done to my only child.
Diane started a small community baking class in our kitchen,
teaching young mothers how to make bread entirely from scratch.
The house was always filled with the smell of warm vanilla,
and the sound of genuine, happy laughter echoing in the halls.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, the phone rang in my study,
an unknown number flashing brightly on the caller ID screen.
I answered it cautiously, expecting a persistent telemarketer,
but instead, I heard the harsh, automated voice of the state prison.
You have a collect call from an inmate,
the robotic voice announced clearly.
To accept the charges, press one now.
My finger hovered directly over the glowing green button,
my heart beating a slow, steady rhythm in my chest.
Aaron was eligible for early parole this month,
I knew that fact because Pierce had casually mentioned it.
I pressed the button, deciding to hear what he had to say,
if only to confirm that my feelings remained completely dead.
Dad,
his voice came through the line, crackling with heavy static.
His tone was entirely different now, stripped of all arrogance,
sounding gravelly, exhausted, and incredibly, pathetically broken.
What do you want, Aaron,
I asked, my voice remaining completely flat and emotionless.
I get out tomorrow morning,
he said quietly.
I have twenty dollars, a bus ticket, and nowhere to sleep.
I closed my eyes, picturing the man who had laughed at my wife,
the man who had forged her signature while she was drugged.
That is a difficult situation,
I replied smoothly.
But I gave you a bus ticket to Chicago five years ago,
I suggest you finally use it and start completely over.
Please, Dad,
he begged, his voice cracking with genuine, desperate tears.
I am so sorry for everything I did to you and Mom.
I was a stupid, arrogant kid trying to impress terrible people,
and I have paid for it every single day in this awful place.
I let his apology hang in the quiet air of my warm study,
feeling absolutely no desire to offer him any quick absolution.
You were thirty-two years old, Aaron, not a naive child,
I reminded him firmly.
You knew exactly what you were doing when you stole our home,
and you knew exactly what you were doing when you laughed.
He sobbed quietly into the prison phone, a pathetic sound,
but it did not move the solid ice that guarded my heart.
Will you just tell Mom that I love her,
he asked softly.
No,
I answered without a single second of hesitation.
She has finally healed from the massive damage you caused,
and I will not introduce your dark shadow back into her life.
Do not call this number ever again, Aaron,
I warned him coldly.
If you try to contact us, or come anywhere near our property,
I will make sure your parole is revoked immediately.
I hung up the phone firmly, severing the terrible connection,
and I blocked the prison's number from our telecom provider.
I sat in my chair for a long moment, staring out the window,
watching the heavy rain wash the neighborhood streets completely clean.
I had made the hardest choice a father could ever possibly make,
choosing my devoted wife over the son who had utterly betrayed us.
But looking back at everything we had endured and survived,
I knew with absolute certainty that I had made the right choice.
I walked out of the study and into the bright, warm kitchen,
where Diane was pulling a fresh pie out of the hot oven.
Who was on the phone,
she asked casually, setting the hot pan on the counter.
Just a wrong number,
May you like
I smiled, kissing her softly on the warm cheek.
Nothing for us to worry about ever again.
