Chapter 7 - Michael’s Anger
Michael disappeared for two days.
Not missing.
He answered Noah.
He just would not speak to me.
On third day, he arrived at 7:30 a.m. carrying the forged trust packet.
He placed it on kitchen table.
“I need you to tell me I’m an idiot.”
“No.”
“I believed him.”
“So did your siblings.”
“I defended him after police came.”
“Yes.”
He sat.
“I told Sarah you probably took the money.”
I waited.
He looked at me.
“Why aren’t you yelling?”
“Would that help?”
“No.”
“Then I’m tired.”
He covered face.
For years Michael had been the child most like Tomas physically.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair.
Quick anger.
Maybe people told him too often.
After Tomas left, Michael tried becoming opposite.
Worked.
Never abandoned child support—he had two children now.
Paid bills early.
Yet he had wanted one thing:
Father to say he mattered.
Tomas knew.
“He called me first,” Michael said.
“I know.”
“He said he left because you made house impossible.”
I stayed quiet.
“He said you always chose Uncle Robert over him.”
False.
Then:
“He said Robert used money to control you and you turned into him.”
That one hurt because perhaps my children saw some of Robert in my silence.
Then Tomas told Michael he had spent years gathering evidence.
“He showed me bank statements.”
Real ones.
Trust statements publicly discoverable through his old records.
Then fake amendment.
“He made it look like you got everything.”
Michael cried.
“I thought about every time you said you couldn’t help me financially.”
“When?”
“When the business almost failed five years ago.”
He had asked to borrow $80,000.
I offered $15,000 from savings.
Not trust.
Trust would not fund adult child’s private company casually.
He had been hurt.
Tomas weaponized.
“He said you let me almost lose my house while sitting on millions.”
I said:
“I did not have authority to give you eighty thousand.”
“I know now.”
Then:
“But you could have told me.”
“Yes.”
That was mine.
I had treated financial details as adult burden to keep away.
My children became adults and I never updated habit.
Silence created vacuum.
Tomas filled.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Michael looked shocked.
“For what?”
“For not telling you enough.”
Then:
“But I will not apologize for following Robert’s trust.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
Then he pushed forged papers.
“Burn?”
“No. Evidence.”
“Of course.”
We both laughed weakly.
Then he asked:
“Do you think Dad killed him?”
I answered:
“I think police need prove.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I looked at my son.
“Yes.”
First time I said aloud.
“I think he may have.”
Michael started crying.
Then:
“Why call us now?”
“Money.”
He shook.
“No. Why me first?”
I knew.
“Because you wanted him most.”
That broke him.
He leaned forward, elbows on table.
“I hate him.”
“Don’t decide today.”
“Why?”
“Because hate is another relationship.”
He looked up.
I surprised myself too.
Then my phone rang.
Detective Foster.
“Retesting confirmed the same prescription cardiac medication.”
My breath stopped.
“At what level?”
She explained not simple.
The concentration in retained tissue, adjusted for degradation and postmortem changes, was inconsistent with accidental trace exposure and potentially toxic.
Medical experts would review causation.
Then:
“We also located Robert’s primary physician. He is eighty two but remembers case because Robert called days before death.”
“What did Robert say?”
“He asked whether taking one of Tomas’s heart pills could cause dizziness.”
My stomach clenched.
“Why would he ask that?”
“He told doctor Tomas claimed he had accidentally mixed up two pill containers during dinner previous week.”
I stared.
Robert had an earlier exposure.
Maybe.
The physician told him never take medication not prescribed and to seek testing if symptoms recurred.
Robert did not believe it was an accident.
He told doctor:
“I think my brother in law is trying to make me look crazy.”
Then death.
Detective said:
“We’re not at charging stage.”
“What else need?”
“Proof linking Tomas to administration, intent, and causation beyond reasonable doubt.”
Then:
“We are seeking old financial records.”
Michael heard half.
“Mom?”
I put phone down.
“Robert may have been exposed once before.”
Michael went pale.
Then doorbell rang.
A courier.
Certified letter addressed to me.
From Tomas’s attorney.
It demanded I cease “defamatory accusations” and preserve all communications.
I laughed.
Michael took paper.
“He knows.”
“Yes.”
Then a second page:
Mr. Parker denies any role in Robert Hayes’s death and asserts that Helen Parker and her adult children are attempting to fabricate criminal allegations to avoid lawful claims relating to the Hayes Trust.
“Lawful claims?”
Michael said.
“He has none.”
Exactly.
Tomas was not merely defending murder suspicion.
He was still trying to preserve inheritance scam.
He still believed the children’s money could be his somehow.
Then Michael looked at me.
“Can I do something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Go home.”
He frowned.
“Mom.”
“Your kids have school.”
He laughed.
“You’re throwing me out?”
“I spent twenty years being available every time someone else exploded.”
Then:
“Go be father.”
He stared.
Then hugged me.
This time I let him.
As he left, he stopped at door.
“I’m coming to dinner Sunday.”
“No inheritance meeting.”
“Good.”
“Bring your kids.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“Mom?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry I missed birthday.”
I nodded.
“That one will take a while.”
He smiled sadly.
“Fair.”
And closed door.
I stood alone.
Not abandoned.
May you like
Alone.
There was a difference.
