After My Wife Passed, I Gave My Son Power Of Attorney Because I Trusted Him With Everything. I Just Found Out He’s Been Draining Tens Of Thousands Every Month For His Secret Gambling Debts. Tonight, I Caught Him Sneaking Into My Office To Photograph My Final Will.

Moving Forward

Last week I got another letter from Marcus. They keep coming every few weeks. I don’t read them anymore. I have them forwarded to Sarah just in case there’s anything legally relevant, but I don’t read them.

Sarah says he’s up for parole in two more years. She asked if I planned to attend the hearing. I said no. She asked if I wanted her to prepare a victim impact statement opposing parole. I said no to that too.

Let him out early if he’s earned it, I told her. Let him rebuild his life. I just don’t want to be part of it.

“You’re entitled to be angry, Bill.”

“I’m not angry anymore. I’m just done. There’s a difference. And there is. Anger requires energy. Emotion. Engagement. I don’t have that for Marcus anymore. He’s not my enemy. He’s not anything to me. He’s just a man who used to be my son, who made choices that severed our connection permanently. I grieve that connection. I grieve the son I thought I had. But I don’t grieve the man he actually is.”

Does that make me cold? Maybe. But it makes me sane.

Tom asked me last month if I regretted prosecuting Marcus.

“He’s doing five years, Bill. That’s a long time. And he’s your only child. What would you have done?”

Tom thought about it.

“Honestly? Probably the same. But I’d hate myself for it.”

“I don’t hate myself. I hate that it was necessary. But Tom, if I’d let it go, what would that have taught him? That he could steal from people who love him and face no real consequences? That grief and family obligation are just tools to exploit?”

“You’re a better man than me.”

“No. I’m just a man who drew a line.”

Finally, tonight, I’m sitting in my study. The same study where I once watched my son photograph my will in the middle of the night. I’ve redecorated since then. New desk. New chair. Fresh paint. It doesn’t feel haunted anymore.

I’m working on a wooden jewelry box for Jennifer’s daughter’s 16th birthday. Cherrywood. Hand cut dovetails. Brass hinges. It’s going to be beautiful.

Catherine would have liked Jennifer. She would have appreciated someone who saw a problem and fixed it. Who risked something to help a stranger. That was Catherine’s way too. Always helping. Always caring.

Maybe that’s where Marcus and I differ. He inherited Catherine’s face. Her charm. Her easy smile. But he didn’t inherit her heart. Or maybe he did once and he lost it somewhere along the way.

Doesn’t matter now. What matters is that I’m still here. Still building things. Still contributing. Still surrounded by people who actually give a damn.

Marcus took a lot from me. My money. My trust. My relationship with my only child. But he didn’t take everything. He didn’t take my dignity. He didn’t take my will to rebuild. He didn’t take my capacity to recognize real kindness when strangers offered it.

And he didn’t take my future. That’s still mine. All mine.