Chapter 9 - The Cost of Being Sorry
Christopher resigned as CEO six days later.
Officially, he took a leave pending an internal investigation.
Unofficially, Summit’s board no longer trusted either side of the Mercer-Hail war.
Veronica leaked documents.
Christopher turned over others.
Leonard Price became the subject of a disciplinary investigation after Daniel located him in Florida.
Reporters started calling.
I refused every interview.
Harbor House received three anonymous donations totaling nearly two million dollars.
I knew one came from Christopher.
I returned it.
He sent another donation through a foundation.
I returned that too.
Finally he stopped.
Not because he no longer wanted to help.
Because he understood money could not perform repentance for him.
Ethan still refused to meet him.
Emma saw him twice.
She called him Christopher.
He accepted it.
One Saturday morning, I found Ethan sitting on the apartment steps with his cello case.
“You’re going to be late.”
“I know.”
He didn’t move.
I sat beside him.
“Want to talk?”
“No.”
We sat anyway.
Eventually he said, “Did he really see the picture?”
I hated that children always found the exact question adults hoped they wouldn’t ask.
“Yes.”
“And still left?”
“Yes.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“Then I hate him.”
“You’re allowed to be angry.”
“I said hate.”
“I heard you.”
He looked at me.
“Do you hate him?”
I thought about it.
Ten years earlier, yes.
Then life became too full.
Twin fevers.
School conferences.
Rent.
Birthday cakes.
Music recitals.
Broken washing machines.
Harbor House.
Laughter.
Eventually hatred became expensive.
“I did.”
“What changed?”
“I got busy loving you.”
His face crumpled slightly.
I put my arm around him.
“Hating somebody doesn’t punish them as much as people think.”
“I still hate him.”
“That’s okay for today.”
A black sedan stopped across the street.
Christopher got out.
Ethan stiffened.
“I didn’t invite him,” I said.
Christopher stayed on the sidewalk.
He held something.
A small wooden box.
“I can leave,” he said.
Ethan stood.
“What is that?”
Christopher looked at the box.
“My mother’s.”
Ethan didn’t move.
Christopher placed it on the bottom step.
“She left it for you and Emma.”
Then he backed away.
No speech.
No request.
No emotional performance.
He simply walked back toward the car.
Ethan stared at the box.
“Open it?” I asked.
He nodded.
Inside were two letters.
One addressed to Emma.
One to Ethan.
And a small silver watch.
Christopher’s father had given it to him when he graduated college.
Margaret apparently recovered it years later.
Ethan opened his letter.
He read silently.
Then again.
His face changed.
“What does it say?”
He handed it to me.
Margaret wrote:
Dear Ethan,
If you are reading this, then I failed to become brave soon enough.
Your father inherited ambition from our family, but courage is something each person must learn alone.
Do not inherit his fear.
Do not become cruel because he was weak.
You deserve to know that you were wanted by someone who was simply too ashamed to knock on your mother’s door.
I loved you before I knew you.
Grandma Margaret.
Ethan wiped his eyes angrily.
“She should’ve knocked.”
“Yes.”
“Everybody keeps being sorry after.”
I hugged him.
“That’s one of the hardest things about people.”
He looked down the street.
Christopher’s car was gone.
May you like
For the first time, Ethan asked a question about him that wasn’t angry.
“Where does he live now?”
