Chapter 7 - Rebuilding the Foundation
Over the next two months, the brownstone on 14th Street underwent a total transformation.
We hired a team of local contractors to undo the sterile grey paint job Matthew had imposed on the house. Sarah took two weeks off from her art gallery job to lead the restoration. We repainted the walls in warm creams and soft yellows; we laid down my Persian rugs, brought back from the Red Hook storage unit; and we set up Arthur’s mahogany dining table right back in the center of the dining room.
Tony the locksmith returned to install a state-of-the-art security system, complete with cameras covering every angle of the property.
On a warm Saturday afternoon in late September, the house was filled with the smell of roasting chicken and fresh apple pie.
Christine had flown in from Los Angeles three days earlier. She was staying in our guest room, spending every waking hour re-establishing her bond with Lily. The court had already signed off on a joint-custody agreement that allowed Lily to finish her school year in Brooklyn with Sarah and me before spending summers with Christine in California.
The doorbell rang at 4:00 PM.
I opened the door to find Eleanor Vance standing on the porch, wearing a bright yellow cardigan and holding a bottle of sparkling apple cider.
"Come in, Eleanor!" I cheered, pulling her into a warm hug.
"I brought good news from the federal court," Eleanor said, setting the bottle on the hallway table as Sarah and Christine walked out of the kitchen.
"What happened?" Sarah asked.
"Matthew signed a full plea agreement forty-five minutes ago," Eleanor announced. "He waived his right to a trial in exchange for the dismissal of the international kidnapping charge."
"And the sentence?" I asked quiet.
"Fifteen years in federal prison, followed by five years of supervised release," Eleanor read from a legal memo. "And the court has ordered full restitution to all six of his embezzlement victims, funded by the seizure of his personal assets, his retirement accounts, and his vacation property in the Hamptons."
Silence fell over the hallway.
Fifteen years. My son would be nearly fifty years old when he stepped out of prison. He would spend his prime years behind iron bars, stripped of his wealth, his career, his status, and the family he had tried to destroy.
I felt a sudden, fleeting sting of sadness—not for the man Matthew had become, but for the little boy who used to sit on Arthur’s lap in this very hallway, learning how to tie his shoes.
"Are you okay, Mom?" Sarah asked gently, taking my hand.
May you like
I looked around the hall—at the warm yellow walls, at Arthur’s old clock ticking steadily in the corner, at Christine and Lily sitting together on the stairs reading a storybook, at Sarah standing strong beside me.
"I am," I said, squeezing Sarah's hand back. "I really am."
