Chapter 6 - Clearing the Air
By 6:00 PM, the front lawn was clear.
Tom Miller had escorted Claire and her daughters down to the local precinct for questioning regarding the financial rerouting and the abandonment charges, while my mother had finally agreed—under threat of immediate arrest for conspiracy—to let her other son, my uncle David living in Toledo, come pick her up in a battered pickup truck.
The house was quiet again.
The kind of quiet that didn't feel heavy or suffocating, but clean, like the air after a summer thunderstorm.
Ethan and I sat at the kitchen table. The smell of detergent and burnt toast from Friday night was gone, replaced by the rich, savory aroma of homemade chicken soup simmering on the stove. Ethan had insisted on cooking, using the recipe his biological mother Sarah had taught him when he was just ten years old.
"Salt needs a little more garlic," Ethan said, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon.
"It’s perfect," I said, sitting back in my chair and watching him move around the kitchen.
For the first time in three years, his shoulders weren't hunched up near his ears. He wasn't flinching every time the floorboards creaked in the hallway. He moved with the easy, confident grace of a kid who knew he belonged right where he was standing.
My phone buzzed on the table.
It was a text message from Marcus Vance:
Emergency injunction granted. Second mortgage nullified due to proven forgery. Bank accounts frozen and recovered. Divorce filing papers ready for your signature on Monday morning. Enjoy your evening, Daniel.
I set the phone down and looked across the counter at my son.
"Hey, Ethan," I said softly.
He turned around, holding a ladle, blinking his dark eyes. "Yeah, Dad?"
"How do you feel about a road trip next weekend?"
Ethan paused, the ladle hovering over the bowl. "Where to?"
"Maine," I said, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. "We’re going to go visit Sarah’s sister, Aunt Clara. And we’re going to check out that architectural drafting program at the institute in Portland you’ve been looking at."
Ethan’s face broke into a grin so wide and bright it felt like the sun had finally broken through the November clouds.
"Are you serious?"
May you like
"Dead serious," I said, standing up and walking over to put my good arm around his shoulders. "No cruises. No fake family photos in khaki shorts. Just us, a lot of maple syrup, and building something real from the foundation up."
Ethan leaned his head against my shoulder, and for the first time since I pulled into the driveway at midnight on Friday, the heavy knot in my chest completely dissolved.
