Because it was not.
“You are my son,” I said. “That fact will never change.”
Hope appeared in his face.
“But being my son does not give you access to my house, my money, or my trust.”
The hope dimmed.
“You will face the consequences of what you did. Afterward, if your actions become different—not your promises, your actions—perhaps we can build something small and truthful.”
“How long will that take?”
“As long as it takes.”
I left the room.
Rachel requested a meeting too.
I refused at first.
Then a letter arrived.
It contained no excuses.
No request for money.
No demand for forgiveness.
She described every part of the plan, including details investigators had not yet uncovered. She admitted that she had copied my signature. She admitted searching my desk. She admitted encouraging Marcus because she believed fear would make me surrender.
At the end, she wrote:
