The settlement was signed in silence. We didn’t even meet in the same room. A press release went out, small and unnoticed by the world.
“Family Dispute Resolved Privately.” There was no apology, no admission of wrongdoing. But the damage was done—quietly, deeply, and permanently. Harold and I sold the big house.
Too many bad memories. We moved to a quiet part of Vermont, a small cabin with a lot of land and no neighbors to whisper lies. He didn’t say much those early days.
He just worked in the yard, chopping wood with a rhythmic thud-thud-thud, fixing up the porch, sometimes sitting for hours watching the trees sway in the wind. But I wasn’t done. The lawsuit was over, but justice is a long game.
I started sending letters—not threats, strictly speaking. Just reminders. Every few weeks, Julia, Paige, and Diane received plain white envelopes with no return address.
Inside each one: a copy of a bill they’d forged, a bank transfer they’d lied about, or a printed screenshot of a text message where they mocked my father. Sometimes, I added a note in my handwriting: Do you remember this? I do.
It was psychological warfare. Not illegal. Just… cold.
Methodical. Like the winter night they left him in. Diane cracked first.
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