He once told Dad he would rather dig ditches than spend his life building chairs.
“Where?”
“He rents space behind an antique shop across town.”
“With what money?”
Some of mine, apparently.
Dad looked uncomfortable.
“He wanted to prove he could make it work before telling you.”
“So he took money intended for you.”
“He borrowed.”
“Did you agree to that?”
Silence.
There was my answer.
I spent that night in a small motel outside Carmona.
I did not confront Derek.
Inez had told me not to.
More importantly, my parents asked me not to.
At nine the next morning, I met them for breakfast at a quiet diner.
For the first time in months, Mom ate at a real table without asking permission.
That thought nearly ruined the meal for me.
But my parents did not want anger.
They wanted clarity.
At ten fifteen, Inez arrived at the workshop carrying two folders and a laptop.
She hugged Mom, shook Dad’s hand, and got straight to work.
“The house is safe,” she said.
Dad nodded.
“The financial power of attorney is broad, but revocable. We can revoke it today.”
Mom looked relieved.
“And the money?”
Inez turned her laptop around.
A spreadsheet filled the screen.
Over fourteen months, I had sent fifty-six thousand dollars.
Not all of it was gone.
But a significant portion had moved through several payments connected to Derek.
Equipment rentals.
A commercial lease.
Materials.
