My Dil Called Me A “selfish Hoarder” And Demanded $50k During Dinner. She Didn’t Know I Brought A Forensic Accountant As My Plus-one. Did I Go Too Far By Exposing Her Theft In Front Of Everyone?
A Memorable Milestone at Meridian Prime
The reservation was at 7:30. The restaurant was one of those places where the waiters wore vests and you couldn’t hear the table next to you over the soft piano music.
My daughter-in-law, Veronica, had insisted on Meridian Prime. It was the kind of steakhouse where a ribeye costs what I used to make in a week back in 1985.
She’d made the reservation herself, picked the private dining room, and even coordinated what everyone should wear.
“It needs to be special, Dad,”
my son Marcus had told me over the phone.
“Emma’s turning 10. Veronica wants to make it memorable.”
I should have known then that the word “memorable” in Veronica’s vocabulary usually meant expensive, and expensive usually meant my wallet. But Emma was my granddaughter, and I’d crawl through broken glass for that kid.
So, I put on the navy blazer Margaret bought me before she passed, the one she said made me look distinguished instead of just old. I drove the 30 minutes into downtown Seattle.
The valet took my car, a 2015 Honda Accord that ran perfectly fine. This was despite Veronica’s monthly suggestions that I upgrade to something more appropriate for a man of my stature.
I’d learned to smile and nod. Arguing with Veronica was like arguing with a fire alarm: loud, persistent, and ultimately pointless.
Marcus met me at the entrance. My son looked tired, the kind of tired that lives in your shoulders and never quite leaves your eyes.
He’d been working double shifts at the hospital. He was an ER nurse, good at his job and proud of what he did, but Veronica had other ideas about what success looked like.
“Dad, thanks for coming,”
he said,
gripping my hand.
His palm was sweaty.
“The girls are already inside with Veronica.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
We walked through the main dining room, past tables where people leaned toward each other in quiet conversation. The private room was in the back with frosted glass walls and a table that could seat twelve.
Tonight, it would be just five of us: Marcus, Veronica, Emma, her younger sister Sophie, and me. Emma saw me first.
She jumped up from her chair, all long legs and missing front tooth, and wrapped her arms around my waist.
“Grandpa!”
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
I pulled a small wrapped box from my jacket pocket. Inside was a compass—a real one made of brass and glass—the kind that didn’t need batteries for all your adventures.
“This is so cool!”
Emma’s eyes went wide.
“Emma, what do we say?”
Veronica’s voice cut through the moment like a knife through butter. She sat at the head of the table, phone in hand, not looking up.
“Thank you, Grandpa.”
Emma clutched the compass and returned to her seat next to Sophie, who was coloring on the kid’s menu with fierce concentration.
I took my place at the opposite end of the table from Veronica. Marcus sat between his wife and daughters, looking like Switzerland in a button-down shirt.
Veronica finally looked up from her phone. She’d done something new to her hair—highlights, maybe, or extensions; I could never tell.
She wore a white dress that probably cost more than my mortgage payment and jewelry that caught the light every time she moved. Her smile was sharp and bright, the kind she used in her Instagram photos.
“Richard, so glad you could make it.”
She always called me Richard, never Dad.
“I’ve already ordered wine. Hope you don’t mind. The sommelier recommended a Napa cab that’s supposed to be exceptional.”
The wine arrived moments later, presented like a newborn baby. The waiter went through the whole ritual: showing the label, pouring a taste, and waiting for approval.
Veronica waved him on impatiently.
“Marcus, your father’s treating tonight, isn’t he?”
She said it as a statement, not a question, while the waiter filled our glasses. Marcus’ jaw tightened.
“Veronica, what?”
“It’s Emma’s birthday. Grandpa would want to do something special.”
She turned to me with that smile again.
“Right, Richard? You’re always saying how we should celebrate family occasions properly.”
I’d never said that, but I nodded anyway.
“Of course.”
The waiter took our orders. Veronica selected the most expensive items on the menu without glancing at prices: the Wagyu beef, the lobster tail, and an appetizer that cost $42 and was, according to the description, “deconstructed.”
Emma and Sophie ordered chicken fingers from the kids’ menu, which seemed to physically pain Veronica.
“Girls, wouldn’t you like to try something more sophisticated? You’re getting older now, Emma. You’re in double digits.”
Emma looked at her mother uncertainly.
“I like chicken fingers.”
“That’s fine, sweetheart,”
I said.
“It’s your birthday. You get whatever you want.”
Veronica’s smile tightened, but she didn’t push. Instead, she pulled out her phone and started taking photos of the table, the wine, and the bread basket.
“This place is so Instagrammable,”
she said
to no one in particular.
“My followers are going to die.”
The appetizers arrived. The deconstructed whatever-it-was turned out to be three small components artfully arranged on a rectangular plate.
Veronica photographed it from multiple angles before taking a bite.
“So, Richard,”
she said,
setting down her fork.
“Marcus and I have been talking about the girls’ education.”
Here it comes, I thought. I’d been waiting for this conversation for six months, ever since Veronica had started making comments about investing in their futures and doors that money can open.
“They’re both doing great in school,”
I said
carefully.
“Emma made honor roll again.”
“Public school honor roll,”
Veronica said
it like she was describing a participation trophy.
“We’re thinking about private education somewhere with real resources, connections, and opportunities. Lakeside Academy has an excellent program.”
Lakeside Academy, where tuition ran $50,000 a year per child. Marcus was staring at his plate, shoulders hunched.
The girls were playing with Sophie’s crayons, oblivious.
“That’s a big decision,”
I said.
“It is, and it requires a certain level of financial commitment.”
Veronica took a sip of wine, her eyes never leaving mine.
“We’ve been managing, but with Marcus’ schedule and everything we’ve been dealing with, it would really help to have family support. You know, the kind of support grandparents traditionally provide.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.
“Veronica, maybe this isn’t the time,”
Marcus started.
“When is the time, Marcus? Your father keeps saying how much he loves the girls, how he wants what’s best for them. Here’s a chance to prove it.”
She turned back to me.
