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?

The Letter

I waited until I was back in my condo that evening to open it. I sat on my balcony, the city lights reflecting off the black water of Lake Michigan below. I had a glass of scotch in my hand, a 15-year-old single malt that I had bought to celebrate my remission scan coming back clean last week. I was healthy. I was wealthy. I was free.

I slit the envelope open with a silver letter opener.

“Dear Dad,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know you are angry. I know I messed up. I have had a lot of time to think in here, Dad. Too much time. The nights are so loud I can’t sleep. I wanted to tell you that I am sorry. I really am. I should not have listened to Brandon. He pushed me, Dad. He told me it was the only way. I was scared. I was scared of losing everything and I made terrible choices.

But Dad, please, you have to understand. I am your daughter. I am all you have left. Do you really want me to rot in here? The other women, they are animals. I am scared every single day. I heard you started a scholarship fund. I heard you gave away hundreds of thousands of dollars to strangers. Strangers, Dad! While your own daughter sits in here without even enough money to buy shampoo at the commissary. How does that look? How can you play the philanthropist while I am suffering?

Please, Dad, I am not asking you to get me out. I know you won’t do that. But please just put some money on my books. Just enough so I can live like a human being. I promise I will pay you back when I get out. I have ideas, Dad. I can start over. We can start over.

Don’t you miss me? Don’t you miss the holidays? Who is going to take care of you when the cancer comes back? Because it will come back, Dad. And when it does, you are going to need family. You are going to need me.

Love, Maddie”

I lowered the letter. I looked at the handwriting, the frantic scrawl of a narcissist who still hadn’t learned the most basic lesson of all. There was no remorse in those words, not really. She blamed Brandon. She blamed the other inmates. She blamed me for spending my money on strangers. She even tried to weaponize my cancer against me, threatening me with the fear of dying alone.

She didn’t miss me. She missed my wallet. She missed the shield my money provided against the harsh reality of the world.

I took a sip of scotch. The liquid was warm and smooth. She asked who would take care of me. I thought of Sarah, who handled my affairs with integrity and love. I thought of Marcus, who looked at me with genuine respect. I thought of the family who bought my old house, who sent me a Christmas card with a picture of their kids playing in front of the fireplace I built.

I was not alone. I was surrounded by people who valued me for who I was, not for what they could take from me.

I stood up and walked to the railing. The wind whipped at the paper in my hand. I did not burn the letter. Burning it would be dramatic. Burning it would imply that it had the power to hurt me. Instead, I walked back inside to my kitchen. I opened the drawer where I kept my household files. I pulled out a folder labeled Past Liabilities. It was the folder where I kept the copies of the eviction notices, the court judgments, the restraining orders. I slipped the letter inside. It was just another receipt, another record of a debt that had been cancelled.

I picked up my phone. I dialed Sarah’s number. She picked up on the first ring.

“Jerry, did you read it?”

“I did,” I said, my voice calm and light.

“And do you want to send a reply?”

“No,” I said. “No reply. But Sarah, I want to make an adjustment to the scholarship fund.”

“Oh? What kind of adjustment?”

“I want to expand it,” I said, looking out at the city lights. “Next year let’s double the intake. I want to add a program for financial literacy. I want to teach these kids how to manage their money, how to protect their assets, and how to spot a bad investment.”

“That sounds like a great idea, Jerry,” Sarah said, warmth returning to her voice. “A very wise legacy.”

“And Sarah… yes, if another letter comes from the facility, don’t bring it to me. Just file it with the others. I have too much work to do to spend time reading fiction.”

I hung up the phone. I walked back out to the balcony. Below me, the city was alive, millions of people rushing, fighting, loving, and building. Somewhere down there in a concrete cell, my daughter was waiting for a savior who wasn’t coming. She was waiting for the old Gerald, the one who could be manipulated by tears and guilt.

But that man was gone. He had died on a frozen porch in February. The man who remained was stronger. He was a builder. And for the first time in his life, he was building something that no one could ever steal from him. He was building peace.

I finished my drink and set the glass down. The night air was sweet. I am Gerald Sullivan. I am 74 years old and my life is just beginning.