He stared at me through the gate.
Behind him, a car slowed on the road, then continued.
“Will you help me?” he asked.
There it was.
Not “Will you forgive me?”
Not “How can I make this right?”
Help me.
The oldest song of spoiled sons.
I looked at him for a long time.
“Yes,” I said.
His face broke with relief.
Then I finished.
“I will help you tell the truth.”
The relief vanished.
“What?”
“I will help you speak to Martin. I will help you document the fraud. I will help you surrender what you cannot keep and face who you owe. I will pay for an attorney, not a rescue. I will pay for safety, not your lifestyle. I will not give you cash. I will not hide assets. I will not lie for you.”
“Dad, they’ll ruin me.”
“You are already ruined. Now you have to decide whether you’ll be rebuilt or buried.”
