Chapter 11 - Christmas Eve Without the Perfect Family
By the time I returned to Chicago on December 27, the family had already chosen sides.
Not publicly.
Families like mine didn’t do public wars.
We did private phone calls.
Selective invitations.
Concerned messages.
Sentence fragments that began with I just think...
Aunt Carol picked me up at O’Hare.
She hugged me before I could pull my suitcase fully onto the curb.
“Happy belated birthday.”
“Thank you.”
Then she looked at me carefully.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
We drove in silence for five minutes before she handed me her phone at a stoplight.
“Your mother hosted Christmas anyway.”
There were photos.
Mom in red silk.
Dad carving prime rib.
Vanessa beside the tree.
Twenty-three relatives around the dining table.
I zoomed in.
At my usual place setting, there was no chair.
Not empty.
Gone.
“They removed me,” I said.
Carol nodded.
“Your mother said you chose not to be part of the family celebration.”
I handed the phone back.
“That sounds like her.”
“She also told people you were threatening the company because you wanted your inheritance early.”
I turned.
“What?”
Carol’s jaw tightened.
“I corrected her.”
“With what?”
“With the fact that your birthday was the distribution date.”
I looked out the window.
Chicago was gray, flat, cold.
Nothing like Tokyo.
But I felt clearer here than I had in years.
“What did Dad say?”
“He didn’t talk much.”
“That’s not good.”
“No.”
She took the next exit.
“Your grandmother is at my house.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother told her not to come to Christmas.”
I turned fully toward her.
“What happened?”
“Ruth said if they were going to remove one granddaughter’s chair, they could remove hers too.”
I laughed, then covered my face.
It came out halfway between a laugh and a sob.
Carol reached over and squeezed my wrist.
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“Someone from your dad’s company called your grandmother yesterday.”
“Who?”
“The controller.”
I frowned.
I knew the name.
“Martin Shaw?”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“He said he needed to speak to you.”
My chest tightened.
“About the trust?”
Carol shook her head.
“About your father’s books.”
We pulled into her driveway.
Grandma Ruth was waiting at the front window.
Beside her stood a tall man in a charcoal coat holding a banker’s box.
Martin Shaw.
He walked outside before I reached the porch.
“Emily?”
“Yes.”
He looked exhausted.
Then he said, “Your father’s company isn’t five million in debt.”
I stopped.
“How much?”
Martin tightened his grip on the box.
May you like
“Closer to eleven.”
And that was before he told me where the other money had gone.
