My father threw me out on my eighteenth birthday, stole the $3,000 I’d saved from working after school, and used it for my stepbrother. Nine days later, while I was digging through a restaurant dumpster for something to eat, a stranger in an expensive suit called my name and told me my supposedly dead grandfather had left me everything. But there was one condition nobody had warned me about.

Eleanor touched my arm.

“Ask questions.”

“I will.”

I walked down the porch steps.

My father remained by the SUV until I reached the drive.

“Nathan,” he said.

“No one calls me Nathaniel except Mom.”

The muscles in his jaw tightened.

“I came to explain.”

“You came because Richard found the trust records.”

“I came because you’re my son.”

“Were you my father when you forged my signature?”

His eyes shifted away.

The silence was not an admission, but it was close.

“I never meant to take anything from you,” he said.

“You transferred money from an account in my name.”

“I used it for your family.”

“My family?”

“Your mother needed treatment. Tyler needed stability. I was trying to keep everyone together.”

“You took money meant for me and lied about where it went.”

“I paid your mother’s medical bills.”

“And then you took my savings.”

“That was different.”