Chapter 22 - Isabelle’s Birthday

Isabelle would have turned thirty-eight in April.

For the first two years after her death, I treated the date like a funeral anniversary.

Black suit.

Flowers.

Silence.

That year the girls refused.

“Mommy liked cake,” Nora announced.

“She liked lemon,” Sophie added.

Olivia said, “And loud music.”

So we had a birthday party for a dead woman.

At first it felt obscene.

Then Grace played one of Isabelle’s old playlists.

Nora danced on the kitchen tiles.

Mrs. Donnelly brought lemon cake.

Camille arrived with Nicholas, who had come home from California after learning the truth about his father.

The first time I saw him, guilt covered his face.

“I didn’t know.”

“I know.”

“My dad—”

“You are not your father.”

I needed him to hear that.

Maybe because nobody had taught Vincent and me the same lesson.

Aaron came too.

Even Miriam.

We told stories.

Good ones.

Embarrassing ones.

I confessed that Isabelle once threw my phone into a bowl of soup because I answered during our anniversary dinner.

Olivia stared.

“Mommy did that?”

“She did.”

“What did you do?”

“Bought another phone.”

Grace groaned.

“You learned nothing.”

“I married her anyway.”

Near sunset, the girls carried paper lanterns into the garden.

No fire.

Grace insisted on electric lights because apparently emotional symbolism did not override safety codes.

Each girl wrote something to Isabelle.

Nora wrote MOMMY in enormous crooked letters.

Sophie wrote: I TALK NOW.

Olivia would not show anyone hers.

We hung the lanterns from the maple tree instead of releasing them.

Isabelle had hated littering.

Again, unbearable even in death.

After everyone left, Olivia found me alone.

She handed me her note.

I read:

Mommy, Daddy is going away but he says that means he is finally doing what you asked. I am still mad at both of you.

I laughed and cried simultaneously.

“She’d respect that.”

“You think?”

“She respected anger when it was honest.”

Olivia looked toward Grace in the kitchen.

“Do you love Grace?”

Children eventually find every locked door.

“Yes.”

She considered.

“Like Mommy?”

“No.”

“Less?”

“Different.”

“Is that bad?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

She smiled.

“Good.”

Apparently uncertainty had become family currency.

I asked, “How would you feel?”

“About Grace?”

“Yes.”

Olivia shrugged.

“She already lives here.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I know.”

She grew serious.

“I don’t want a new mom.”

“She would never replace your mother.”

“I know.”

“And nothing is happening quickly.”

“You’re going to prison.”

“Yes.”

“So definitely not quickly.”

I stared.

She had inherited Isabelle’s cruelty.

“Correct.”

Olivia hugged me.

“I love Grace too.”

That night, after the girls were asleep, Grace and I sat beneath the lanterns.

“I heard your interrogation.”

“Privacy is dead in this house.”

“It was never healthy here anyway.”

She leaned against my shoulder.

I kissed the top of her hair.

Nothing more.

There were deadlines around us.

Sentencing.

Prison.

Grief.

The future did not need to be solved tonight.

My phone buzzed.

Miriam.

One last legal issue.

Vincent had appealed parts of his conviction.

Expected.

But investigators had also uncovered a sealed trust our father created twenty years earlier.

It contained nearly twelve million dollars.

I had never known about it.

Neither had Vincent, apparently.

The beneficiary language was strange.

Funds would pass to “the surviving male heir actively exercising control of Romano family enterprises.”

A relic of our father’s obsession with sons.

Under one interpretation, it belonged to me.

Under another, because I had dismantled the enterprises, it could fall into litigation involving Vincent.

I stared at the document.

Grace asked, “What will you do?”

Old Dominic would fight.

Twelve million was twelve million.

Then I read the clause again.

Surviving male heir.

My daughters excluded by design.

My father speaking from the grave.

I called Miriam.

“Can we disclaim it?”

“Yes.”

“Where would it go?”

“Depending on the trust, possibly charitable remainder.”

“What charity?”

She checked.

“Bright Harbor Foundation.”

Isabelle’s old charity.

I laughed.

“What?”

“My father tried to keep money away from daughters and may accidentally fund preschool lunches.”

Grace smiled.

“Poetic.”

“Make it happen.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Twelve million dollars disappeared from my personal future with one signature.

I felt lighter.

Then Grace took my hand.

“Dominic?”

“Yes?”

“Isabelle would have loved that.”

I looked toward the glowing lanterns.

“No.”

Grace frowned.

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I smiled.

“She would have asked why it took me this long.”