I stared at the wall.
“He lied.”
Trevor began crying.
“I know that now.”
I said nothing.
He continued.
“He told me Dad had promised him the company.”
My throat tightened.
“Your father wanted you to learn how to run it.”
Trevor’s voice broke.
“I thought you were punishing me.”
I closed my eyes.
“Trevor, I gave you a home. A job. Every opportunity I could afford.”
He began sobbing.
“And when I told you no, you hit me.”
A long silence followed.
Finally, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I stared at the bruises on my arm.
For forty-four years, I’d wanted to hear my son apologize whenever he made a mistake.
Now the words sounded painfully small.
I took a slow breath.
“Trevor, I’m glad you recognize what you did.”
He cried harder.
“But an apology doesn’t erase thirty blows.”
He was silent.
“And it doesn’t erase the forged documents.”
