Chapter 8: What Dad Said Before It Was Over
The trial didn't happen.
Dad pleaded guilty on four of the six counts — wire fraud, misappropriation of estate funds, forgery of a beneficiary document, and one count related to the financial arrangement with Gail Fenton.
His attorney negotiated the plea over six weeks, and Aunt Ruth's lawyer kept us informed at every stage.
Gail Fenton accepted a separate plea.
Eighteen months, with the possibility of early release.
She was ordered to repay her share of the transferred funds.
Melissa's case was handled differently.
The DA acknowledged her cooperation and her role in gathering evidence.
She was charged with two counts of child endangerment.
She accepted a plea that included mandatory counseling, community service, and a five-year probationary period.
She would not serve prison time.
I didn't know how I felt about that.
I still don't, entirely.
But when Karen from DCFS told me, she also told me that Melissa had written a letter — not to the court, but to me and Noah.
She didn't have to.
Nobody asked her to.
I read it once.
Noah asked me what it said.
I told him she was sorry.
He nodded and went back to his book.
Maybe that was enough.
Maybe it wasn't.
I decided I didn't have to decide yet.
Two days before Dad's sentencing, his attorney contacted Aunt Ruth's lawyer with a request.
Dad wanted five minutes.
Just five minutes, in a supervised setting, to speak to me directly.
Aunt Ruth left it entirely to me.
I thought about it for a full day.
Then I said yes.
We met in a small room at the courthouse — me, Dad, his attorney, and a family advocate.
No Noah.
I hadn't told Noah I was going.
Dad looked smaller than I remembered.
Not physically — he was the same height, the same build.
But something about the way he sat, with his hands folded on the table and his eyes not quite meeting mine at first, made him seem like less of whatever he had been before.
"Cara," he said.
"You wanted five minutes," I said.
"Go ahead."
He looked at his hands.
"I told myself I was keeping things stable," he said.
"After your mother passed.
I told myself the money was complicated, that I was managing it for all of us, that I'd sort it out before you were old enough to need it." He paused.
"I told myself a lot of things."
"You told Melissa to keep us in line," I said.
"You told her we'd report her if she was soft.
You made her afraid of us so she'd control us."
He didn't deny it.
"I didn't think it would go as far as it did," he said.
"She used a belt on Noah," I said.
"He was eight."
Dad closed his eyes.
"I know."
"You don't get to say you didn't know what was happening.
You set it up."
"I know," he said again.
His voice was very quiet.
I looked at him.
My father.
The man who had carried me on his shoulders at the state fair when I was six.
The man who had cried at Mom's funeral so hard he had to leave the room.
The man who had, at some point between then and now, decided that protecting himself was more important than protecting us.
"I'm not going to tell you I forgive you," I said.
"I don't know if I ever will.
But I'm not going to spend my life being angry at you either.
That's not for you.
That's for me."
He looked up.
"You're so much like her," he said.
"I know," I said.
"I'm glad."
I stood up.
"Noah is going to be okay," I said.
"We both are.
Not because of anything you did.
Because of what Mom did.
And because of Aunt Ruth.
And because Noah had more courage at eight years old than most adults ever find." I picked up my bag.
"I hope you use the time to figure out who you actually want to be."
I walked out.
May you like
His attorney called after me: "Miss — we're not finished —"
"I am," I said, and kept walking.
