The Folder My Father Left
“I defended her,” Fergus whispered.
“I treated you like an enemy for years, because she told me you hated us.”
“She needed you to hate me,” I said.
“If we ever really talked, the truth would come out.” He looked at the folders, the journal, the tape.
“What are you going to do now?” “The right thing,” I said.
That afternoon Bettina filed a criminal complaint with the State Attorney’s office — grand larceny, forgery, real-estate fraud — and petitioned to freeze the estate’s assets pending audit.
I want to be honest that it did not feel like triumph.