She’s shoving a check into my face. One that I wrote over to her and her family. Marissa Stamretz. No way in this lifetime was this how I wanted Savannah to find out about my father—about what he did. I don’t know what’s worse, the woman standing in front of me with a check or the blank, vacant look that took over Savannah. “You can take your money and shove it.” The woman presses a check into my hands and starts to walk away. No no no. She can’t not take the money. This is supposed to make it better—supposed to make up for everything that my father did. If she doesn’t take it, then what am I doing? “This is for you, I can’t—I don’t want it and I don’t need it.” “Well isn’t that nice for you, poor little rich boy.” “I can’t change what my father did. This is the only way I can think of to make it right.” “My parents lost everything after what your father did. Their retirement, their home—but we survived. This check, do you know what it brings up for us?
