“That’s the same thing.”
“No, Brandon,” I said softly. “It isn’t.”
For years, I had imagined this conversation might happen one day. In quieter versions of it, Brandon would be embarrassed but not cruel. He would apologize. He would remember something of the boy who used to hold my hand at job sites and ask why cranes didn’t fall over. Maybe he would cry. Maybe I would soften.
But after thirty slaps, fantasy had no place left to live.
Amber came onto the line. “Franklin, this is insane. You can’t just sell our home without telling us.”
“I didn’t sell your home,” I replied. “I sold a residence owned by Redwood Capital, an entity in which neither of you has legal interest.”
Her voice changed then. The sweetness vanished. “You bitter old man.”
Martin raised an eyebrow.
I leaned back in my chair. “Good morning to you too, Amber.”
