That same afternoon, while I was setting up the kids’ rooms in our beautiful new lake house, my phone buzzed with texts. Arnold had come home from “celebrating his freedom” to find the locks changed, the power cut, and a For Sale sign on the lawn.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?” his message screamed in all caps.
I didn’t reply.
I didn’t need to.
Apparently, the new buyers showed up before he could even pack. Sharon had been busy. Very busy.
The cherry on top?
Walter paid for my divorce attorney. In full. The best in the state.
And made sure his son paid every cent of child support.
“But what about the family business?” I asked Walter one evening as we watched the kids play by the lake. “Won’t this affect Arnold’s position?”
He chuckled, a sound both warm and cold at the same time. “Position?
Oh, I forgot to mention. I retired him. Effective immediately.
The board agreed.”
I never had to see Arnold again, except during carefully structured custody exchanges.
But I did hear from a friend that he’s now living in a one-bedroom rental and that his new girlfriend left after three months, once the money dried up.
The family business that he thought he’d inherit one day? Now in the capable hands of Walter’s longtime deputy. A woman who started as his secretary thirty years ago.
I still send Walter carrot cake every Sunday.
And he still calls me his real daughter.
Only now, I know he means it.
