I Just Finished Chemo And Found My Locks Changed. My Daughter Handed Me A Trash Bag Of My Clothes And Said I Was No Longer Her Problem. Now, I Own Every Cent Of Debt She And Her Husband Have. Who Is The Dead Weight Now?
Wrong Move
I moved to a condo on Lakeshore Drive. It is on the 35th floor with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the vast expanse of Lake Michigan. It has a doorman named James who greets me by name every morning. It has 24-hour security. No one can get to my door unless I buzz them in. It is a fortress of solitude and comfort.
I sit here now on my balcony wrapped in a warm cashmere blanket. The wind off the lake is cold, but it cannot touch me. I have a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea in my hand, the kind Patricia used to drink. The steam rises, curling into the gray sky.
My phone is sitting on the small glass table next to me. It has been vibrating intermittently for the past hour. I glance at the screen. Incoming call: Cook County Detention Center.
It rings and rings, then stops, then rings again. I look at the notification badge: 49 missed calls.
49 times Madison has tried to reach me from the public phone in the holding area or perhaps from a halfway house phone now that she is out on probation and realizing that the world is a very cold place when you have no money and no father to bail you out.
I can imagine what she wants to say. She wants to apologize. She wants to explain. She wants money. She wants to ask how I could do this to her. She wants to play the victim one last time.
I reach out and pick up the phone. For a second, my thumb hovers over the answer button. It would be so easy to slide it across, to hear her voice, to let her back in just a little bit. But then I look at my hand, the hand that held the pen she tried to force me to sign with, the hand that wrote two words on her car window in the snow. Wrong move.
I press the side button, silencing the ringer. I place the phone face down on the table. I do not block the number. That would be an act of emotion. That would show that I care. Ignoring it is an act of power. It tells her that she simply does not exist in my world anymore. She is a ghost haunting a frequency I no longer tune into.
I take a sip of my tea. It is hot and sweet. The warmth spreads through my chest, chasing away the last lingering chill of that terrible night on the porch.
I am 73 years old. I have cancer, but it is in remission. I have money in the bank. I have a view of the city I love. And for the first time in a long time, I have absolute silence.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, listening to the wind whip around the building. I am not lonely. I am free.
They tried to throw me away. They tried to tell me my place was in the trash. But they learned the hard way that you should never underestimate the man who built the foundation you are standing on. Because if he wants to, he can pull it out from under you and watch you fall.
I smiled to myself, a small private smile of victory. I cleaned up the mess. I balanced the books. And I survived. It was without a doubt the best move of my life.
The Legacy
The seasons in Chicago change with a violence that rivals the city’s politics. The brutal winter that had served as the backdrop for my betrayal finally broke, giving way to a wet gray spring and then a sudden humid summer.
It has been 6 months since I sat in that conference room and dismantled my daughter’s life. 6 months since I moved into the condo on Lakeshore Drive. People often ask me, usually in hushed tones over dinner or coffee, if I have regrets. They wonder how a father can sleep at night knowing his only child is sitting in a cell wearing an orange jumpsuit instead of designer silk.
I tell them I sleep just fine. In fact, I sleep better than I have in years.
I was standing in the center of a large open workspace in the West Loop, a renovated warehouse that smelled of sawdust and fresh paint. This was the new headquarters of the Patricia Sullivan Trade Initiative. Around me, 20 young men and women were busy at work learning how to frame walls, how to wire circuits, how to sweat copper pipes. They were the kind of kids society usually overlooks, kids from rough neighborhoods, kids who didn’t have the money for college, kids who reminded me of myself 50 years ago.
“Mr. Sullivan,” a voice called out.
I turned to see Marcus, a 19-year-old from the Southside, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. He had been one of our first scholarship recipients. He was sharp, hardworking, and possessed a gratitude that my own daughter had never known.
“I just wanted to show you the wiring on the mockup panel,” he said, beaming. “I think I finally nailed the three-way switch circuit.”
I walked over and inspected his work. The wires were stripped cleanly. The connections were tight. The layout was logical and neat. It was professional.
“Good work, Marcus,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “You have good hands. Respect the trade and it will feed you for life.”
He grinned. “Thank you sir. I… I wanted to say thank you again for everything. My mom, she cried when I told her I got my certification last week. She said ‘You are an angel.'”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “I am no angel, son. I am just a man who knows the value of hard work.”
As Marcus went back to his station, I saw Sarah Jenkins walking across the shop floor. She was wearing a light summer suit, her heels clicking on the concrete. She looked serious. Sarah rarely brought me good news when she had that expression on her face.
I walked to meet her in the quiet of the small glass-walled office overlooking the training floor. “What is it, Sarah?” I asked, pouring two cups of water from the cooler. “Is it the appeal?”
She nodded, taking the cup. “Madison’s public defender filed another motion for early release based on hardship. She claims the conditions in the facility are detrimental to her mental health. She says she is suffering from depression and anxiety because of… well, because of the estrangement from her family.”
I took a sip of water. My hand was steady. 6 months ago that might have stung. Now it just felt like reading a weather report about a storm in another country.
“Estrangement,” I repeated dryly. “That is a fancy word for consequences. What did the judge say?”
Sarah allowed herself a small grim smile. “Judge Harrison threw it out. He noted that her anxiety did not seem to prevent her from running a Ponzi scheme or defrauding a cancer patient. She stays in, Jerry. She serves the full 30 months.”
30 months. Two and a half years. It seemed like a long time and no time at all.
“And Brandon?” I asked.
“He is not doing as well,” Sarah said. “Federal prison is not a country club despite what people think. He has been assigned to the laundry detail. Apparently he is not very popular. He tries to gamble with cigarettes and ramen noodles. He has already lost his commissary privileges twice. Old habits die hard.”
I looked out at the students on the floor. I saw Marcus laughing with another student as they measured a piece of drywall. They were building a future. Brandon was still trying to hustle in a cage.
“There is something else,” Sarah said, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a white envelope. It was standard issue prison stationary. The stamp was crooked. The handwriting was familiar but shaky, stripped of the arrogant loops it used to have.
“It arrived at my office this morning,” Sarah said softly. “She knows you block her calls. She knows you return her letters unopened. So she sent it to me asking me to deliver it.”
I stared at the envelope: Madison Sullivan, Inmate Number 78492.
“You do not have to read it, Jerry,” Sarah said. “I can shred it right now. You owe her nothing.”
I took the envelope. The paper felt cheap and rough against my fingertips. “No,” I said. “I think I will read this one.”
