“He Is Dangerous” — My Father Said about our Neighbor, I Acted like a Naive Girl and…

Twenty-Five Years of Milestones

Jace appeared at my side, his face a mixture of concern and calculation. I could practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out how to play this situation to his advantage.

He reached for my hand, started to say something about how sorry he was, how he had no idea things were this serious, how we should go somewhere and talk. I pulled my hand away and looked at him.

Really looked at him, maybe for the first time. He was handsome—Jace Edwards—charming, the kind of man who always knew the right thing to say.

But looking at him now, I saw someone else. Someone who had sided with my family when I needed him most; someone who had called my search for truth an obsession.

Someone who had been more interested in my father’s investment than in my well-being. I took off my engagement ring.

Three carats, princess cut—the ring Jace had spent months paying off because he wanted it to be perfect. I placed it in his hand and closed his fingers around it.

He started to protest, to explain, to do what he always did when things weren’t going his way, but I was already walking away. I walked toward the front of the house where Theodore was waiting.

Theodore had watched the whole thing from a distance, respecting my need to handle this myself. But when I reached him, when I finally let myself collapse against his shoulder, he held me like a father holds his child.

Like he had wanted to hold me for 25 years. The guests started leaving quietly, shell-shocked.

A few of them stopped to speak to me. My aunt, my mother’s sister, apologized for not seeing what was happening.

A neighbor admitted they had always thought something was off about how I was treated. My mother’s book club president said she was sorry; she just didn’t know.

They didn’t know because they didn’t want to know. They didn’t know because it was easier to believe the story my parents told than to look beneath the surface.

They didn’t know because sometimes people would rather accept a comfortable lie than an uncomfortable truth. But I didn’t say any of that.

I just nodded and accepted their apologies and watched them drive away from the wreckage of my family’s reputation. Nadia found me an hour later after the police had left and the caterers had quietly packed up the uneaten anniversary cake.

32 years of marriage and the celebration cake was going in the garbage. There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere.

She was crying, really crying, the way I had never seen my carefree little sister cry before. She told me she had suspected—not the full truth, but pieces of it.

She had noticed how differently our parents treated me. She had wondered why I looked nothing like the rest of the family.

She had even found the trust fund documents once, years ago. But Constantia had caught her looking and made her swear never to mention them.

Nadia had been 15, scared, dependent on our parents for everything. She had kept the secret, telling herself it wasn’t her business, telling herself there must be an explanation.

And then she had run away to Europe, as far as she could get, because staying in that house meant facing a truth she wasn’t ready to face. I wanted to be angry with her.

Part of me was angry, but looking at my little sister, mascara streaking down her face, I saw someone who had also been damaged by our parents’ lies. Not in the same way I had been, but damaged nonetheless.

I told her we had a lot to talk about. I told her I wasn’t ready to forgive her yet, but I also told her I wasn’t ready to lose her completely.

She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I might actually have a real sister.

The house was empty now. The string lights still twinkled, absurdly festive against the backdrop of destruction.

Theodore and I stood in the backyard looking at the home where I had grown up—the home that had never really been mine. He asked me if I was okay.

Such a simple question; such a complicated answer. I told him I would be eventually, but right now I just wanted to go home.

He looked confused for a moment. Home? Where?

I smiled—the first real smile I had felt in months.

“Home.”

I told him.

“Across the street. Where I should have been all along.”

We walked back to his house together, my father and I—the monster and his daughter. And for the first time in 32 years, I wasn’t afraid of what I might find there.

The legal process took six months. Six months of depositions, hearings, evidence reviews, and more paperwork than I had ever seen in my accounting career.

And believe me, I have seen a lot of paperwork. I once audited a restaurant that kept receipts in shoeboxes; this was worse.

The criminal case went first. Jose pled guilty to reduced charges in exchange for cooperating with the investigation.

His lawyer cited his age and health issues, painted him as a man who had simply followed his wife’s lead for 32 years. The judge wasn’t entirely convinced, but she accepted the plea.

Jose received three years probation, 200 hours of community service, and complete forfeiture of his pension. Constantia did not plead guilty.

Constantia fought every single charge with the kind of viciousness that made me realize I had never really known my mother at all. She hired expensive lawyers, filed motion after motion, and tried to paint me as an ungrateful daughter manipulated by a predatory older man.

The jury didn’t buy it. They deliberated for less than four hours.

Constantia Brennan was convicted on 12 counts of fraud, theft, and identity theft. The judge sentenced her to four years in state prison.

I was there for the sentencing. I watched my mother’s face as the judge pronounced the verdict.

For one brief moment, I saw something I had never seen before: regret. Real regret—not for what she had done to me, but for getting caught.

Then the moment passed and her face hardened into familiar bitterness. She looked at me as the officers led her away and her eyes promised that this wasn’t over.

But it was over—for her, at least. For me, it was just beginning.

Wesley’s case was handled separately. His lawyer argued that he had been coerced by his mother.

The jury was more sympathetic to this argument than I would have liked. Wesley received 18 months in prison and three years probation.

He also lost his business license and his reputation, which for Wesley was probably the worst punishment. The golden child was finally tarnished.

His wife, Sandra, filed for divorce before his sentencing. We had coffee once; turns out we had a lot in common.

Both survivors of the Brennan family dysfunction. The civil case came next.

Theodore’s lawyers documented every dollar that had been stolen, every forged signature, every lie told to financial institutions. The judgment was $340,000—the original trust fund plus interest plus damages.

My parents didn’t have that kind of money in cash, of course. They had spent it all on Wesley’s failed businesses, Nadia’s European adventures, and their own comfortable retirement.

But they did have the house on Maple Ridge Drive, the one they had secretly transferred to Wesley’s name trying to protect it from exactly this kind of judgment. The court found the transfer fraudulent.

The house was seized and sold at auction. After legal fees and court costs, I received $280,000.

It wasn’t everything they had stolen, but it was enough. I used part of the money to pay off my student loans—the ones I had taken out because my parents said they couldn’t afford to help while secretly draining my trust fund.