Chapter 10 - The Midnight Deadline
I forwarded Leonard the insurance reminder.
Nothing more.
At 6:15 P.M. on December 30, he called.
“What do I click?”
“I don’t know what document you’re looking at.”
“The insurance portal.”
“Call the broker.”
“He left for the holiday.”
“He has an emergency number.”
“They keep putting me on hold.”
“That happens.”
“Karen, please.”
I stared at the wall.
It would take me ten minutes.
Maybe less.
I knew every question.
Every property value.
Every policy number.
Every prior claim.
That was precisely why I could not do it.
If I rescued him every time the consequences became inconvenient, nothing had changed.
“I’m not authorized anymore.”
“You can still tell me what to do.”
“That’s still managing.”
He sounded angry again.
“Do you want us to lose the buildings?”
“No.”
“Then help.”
“You have options.”
“What options?”
“Professional management.”
“I told you.”
“I’m not paying eight percent.”
“Then learn to manage your own assets.”
He hung up.
The next day was December 31.
Six days after Christmas.
At 8:12 that morning, snow began falling.
By ten, nearly four inches covered our driveway.
Denton and Willa built a crooked snowman near the mailbox.
At 11:06, a black SUV pulled up outside.
My stomach tightened.
My parents got out.
Harriet wore a camel coat and looked furious even from thirty yards away.
Leonard carried a folder.
They walked through the snow.
Denton came inside with Willa.
“You don’t have to open the door.”
“I know.”
But I did.
I stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind me.
My mother started immediately.
“This has gone far enough.”
“Good morning to you too.”
Leonard held up the folder.
“The insurance paperwork has to be submitted today.”
“I know.”
“We need your help.”
There it was.
Six days after my daughter received one dollar and a note about deserving more, my parents stood in the snow begging for the one thing they had always assumed was free.
Me.
Harriet crossed her arms.
“Your father is willing to overlook your behavior.”
I actually laughed.
Leonard looked embarrassed.
“Harriet.”
“What?”
“She needs to hear it.”
“No.”
I looked at my father.
“She needs to hear something else.”
He knew what I meant.
Harriet’s eyes narrowed.
“You cannot seriously expect us to apologize because a child misunderstood an adult financial decision.”
I opened the door.
“Then this conversation is over.”
Leonard stepped forward.
“Karen, wait.”
I looked at him.
He held out the insurance folder.
“Please.”
I did not take it.
“Say her name.”
“What?”
“My daughter.”
He swallowed.
“Willa.”
“Now tell me what you did to her.”
Harriet snapped.
May you like
“Leonard, don’t.”
For once, my father did not immediately obey.
