Chapter 8 - The Confrontation at Dinner
There was no festive Christmas dinner that afternoon.
Instead of sitting around the dining table eating the honey-glazed ham that Dana had bought, Dad, Grandma, Mason, and I sat in the kitchen eating leftover turkey sandwiches. Mason had quietly retreated into himself, but Grandma made sure he had a warm plate and a cup of cider.
At five o'clock in the evening, Dana came down the stairs.
She had changed out of her holiday dress into a designer coat and jeans. She carried an expensive leather weekender bag—not the one she bought with Grandma’s money, but an even bigger one. Her makeup was freshly reapplied, her face a mask of cold arrogance.
"I’m leaving," Dana announced, standing in the kitchen doorway. "I'm taking Mason, and we’re going to my sister's house in Cleveland for the rest of the break. When you’ve all come to your senses and realized how ungrateful you’re being to the woman who keeps this family running, Adam, you can call me and apologize."
Dad set his sandwich down on the plate. He slowly reached down to his left hand, twisted the gold wedding band off his finger, and placed it squarely in the center of the kitchen island.
Dana stopped breathing. Her arrogant expression cracked instantly.
"You're not taking Mason to Cleveland," Dad said evenly.
"Excuse me? He is my son!"
"And his legal custody agreement with his biological father clearly states that out-of-state travel during school holidays requires thirty days written notice or express permission from both legal guardians," Dad said coldly. "I read your custody decree when we enrolled him in school, Dana. If you cross state lines with him right now without his father’s consent, you are in violation of a court order."
Dana looked horrified. "You wouldn't dare contact his father."
"I don't have to," Dad said, tapping the laptop on the counter. "Because right now, you have a much bigger problem. I just printed out eight months of unauthorized bank transfers totaling six thousand four hundred dollars from my personal savings account into your private offshore credit line."
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Dana gripped her weekender bag until her knuckles turned white. "That was our money!"
"No, Dana. That was the money my late wife left in trust for Natalie's college tuition," Dad said, his eyes burning with a cold fire I had never seen in him before. "You didn't just steal from my mother. You stole from my dead wife and my daughter."
