Chapter 8 - The Truth About Dad's Money
The trust investigation lasted months.
I didn't attend meetings with accountants or review bank statements after school.
I was eleven.
Nora and Margaret wanted me to be able to spend time being eleven.
So I went to class.
Did homework.
Joined the science club.
Learned how to make chocolate-chip cookies without burning the bottom.
Sometimes I still woke up frightened.
Sometimes I checked the refrigerator even when I knew it was full.
Sometimes I asked Nora exactly what time she'd be home.
She always answered.
If her plans changed, she called.
That helped.
My counselor said it might take time before I stopped expecting adults to disappear.
I told him I didn't think I'd ever stop completely.
He said we didn't have to decide that yet.
The first major financial finding came in October.
Investigators had confirmed that several invoices submitted to my trust described services I had not received.
Some payments had gone to accounts connected to Derek's business.
The trustee began recovery efforts and referred suspected fraud to the appropriate authorities.
Mom retained an attorney.
Derek retained a different attorney.
They stopped vacationing together.
I learned that from a neighbor who liked talking more than she liked listening.
I didn't ask for updates.
I was more interested in whether Nora would let me adopt a hamster.
She said no.
Uncle David said maybe.
I considered that progress.
Then Margaret arranged a meeting to explain something important to me.
Dad had left more than the trust.
He had also left a letter describing why he created it.
Margaret brought it to Nora's house.
We sat around the kitchen table.
She placed the envelope in front of me.
I opened it.
My Sydney,
Your mother and I both love you, but money can become complicated when people are frightened.
I stared.
Dad continued.
I don't want you to grow up believing you're a burden because you need shoes, food, schoolbooks, or medicine.
My eyes filled.
Those things are part of being a child.
They're not favors you owe somebody for.
I wiped my cheeks.
Then read the next paragraph.
If I can't be there when you're older, I hope this fund helps you learn, travel, and choose a future that makes you happy.
I smiled faintly.
Dad had always promised we'd visit the Grand Canyon.
He said I needed to see the stars without city lights.
Then I reached the final line.
And if anybody tells you that being independent means never asking for help, tell them your father said they're wrong.
I began crying.
Nora held me.
Margaret waited.
When I could speak, I asked:
“Did Dad know Mom might leave?”
Margaret shook her head.
“I can't say he anticipated anything like what happened.”
I looked down.
“Then why did he write that?”
She smiled sadly.
“Because he knew children need dependable adults and protection for their futures.”
I folded the letter carefully.
Then asked something that had been bothering me.
“Will Mom go to jail?”
Margaret answered honestly.
“I can't predict what the investigations or legal proceedings will decide. Different issues are being addressed separately.”
I nodded.
“Do I have to help decide?”
“No, sweetheart. You're not responsible for deciding how adults are held accountable.”
I exhaled.
That was a relief.
Because part of me was angry enough to want Mom to understand exactly how frightened I'd been.
Another part still missed her.
The version of her who used to sing in the car.
The version who taught me how to braid my hair.
The version who made dinosaur-shaped pancakes when Dad was alive.
I didn't know where that mother had gone.
And I didn't know whether she'd ever come back.
In November, a review hearing addressed my long-term care arrangements.
The court considered the relevant evidence, the professionals' recommendations, and the available family options.
Nora and David had completed the required assessments.
Mom's attorney spoke on her behalf.
I was given an appropriate opportunity to express my wishes.
I didn't have to stand in front of strangers and make a dramatic speech.
I spoke with the person appointed to represent my interests.
I said:
“I want to stay with Aunt Nora.”
Then I added:
“I want Mom to get help.”
Both things were true.
The court approved continued placement with Nora and David under the applicable arrangements and established conditions for Mom's contact and further review.
It wasn't the end of every legal question.
But that night, Nora told me I could keep my bedroom.
Not just for another week.
Not just until somebody changed their mind tomorrow.
For the foreseeable future, under the arrangements then in place, this was where I would live.
I stared at the blue quilt.
Then asked:
“Can I paint the walls?”
Nora smiled.
“What color?”
I thought.
“Yellow.”
She laughed.
“Of course.”
We spent the weekend painting.
Uncle David got paint on his nose.
Nora got paint in her hair.
I got paint on almost everything.
At the end, we stood in the doorway.
The walls were bright yellow.
My books sat on the shelves.
Dad's photograph stood on the desk.
The room looked like mine.
Then the phone rang.
Mom.
It was the first contact scheduled under the new arrangements.
Nora asked whether I wanted to answer.
I looked around my yellow bedroom.
May you like
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
