We met at Gunther’s Ice Cream in Land Park. Outdoor tables. Spring trying to break through April’s gloom. Jenny sat across from me with an untouched cone melting in her hand. I reached across, gently took it, set it aside, then took her hand. They fight every night about money, about the investigation, about you, about me. Dad blames you for everything. Says you’re rich and stingy. Mom finally yelled back that you gave us $45,000. Jenny’s voice shook. Some government letter came. Mom read it and started screaming. I’d never heard her like that. What did she say? She screamed, “You stole $80,000. You committed fraud.” Dad said, “I did what I had to do.” Mom said, “You destroyed us. My father threw us out because of your crimes.” Dad said, “Your father could have helped us instead of keeping score.” Mom said, “He gave us everything and you threw it in his face.” “First time Amanda assigned blame correctly, not to me, but to Michael.” Jenny continued, “Creditors call constantly, sometimes 10 times a day. Six different credit cards, all maxed, $35,000 total. They scream at each other until neighbors pound on the walls.”
Through Jenny’s account, I assembled the picture. Amanda genuinely hadn’t known about Michael’s fraud. Her confrontation with him was real. Shock, betrayal, rage. But Michael deflected. Still blamed me for not giving them more. the irony. He was right about my wealth, wrong about everything else.
