Keep Your Million Dollar Blood Money

The son you kept secret for two decades is here, Dad. And hes asking for the house.

I stood by the hospital bed, looking down at my father. He was skeletal, barely a shadow of the man hed been.

His eyes darted away from mine. His lips moved, dry and slow.

Dee, hes your brother

My brother?

I had spent eight years of my life waiting on him. Eight years of bedpans and feeding tubes, eight years of quitting my job, foregoing marriage, sacrificing my entire life.

Eight years.

And he had kept a whole son secret for twenty years, a child whose existence hed never even hinted at.

Now, that "brother" was here.

Here to divide the legacy.

1.

When the man first stood in the doorway of the hospital room, I honestly thought he was lost.

Excuse me, is Arthur Stone staying here?

I paused. Who are you looking for?

Arthur Stone, he repeated. Im his son.

My mind went blank. I hadn't processed the words.

Im sorry, what did you just say?

Arthur Stones son, Ronan Mills. He spoke with an unnerving casualness. Im here to see my dad.

Arthur Stone was my fathers name.

I, Delilah Stone, was Arthur Stones only child.

You have the wrong room, I said, flatly.

He smiled, a practiced, easy smile, and pulled out his phone. He scrolled to a photo.

It was my father. Younger, maybe forty, standing next to a small boy, seven or eight years old. My fathers hand rested heavily on the boys shoulder.

Beneath the photo was a handwritten inscription:

Ronans 8th Birthday. Dad loves you always.

My hands started to shake, gripping the doorframe.

Who in Gods name are you?

He tucked the phone away and looked up, meeting my eyes. Dee, Im Ronan Mills. My mother is Lydia Shaw. Dad and my mom were together about twenty years ago.

Dee.

He called me Dee.

I leaned against the frame, feeling the world tilt on its axis.

Thats impossible, I whispered. My father would never

Thats enough, Delilah. My fathers voice, raspy and weak, came from the bed. Let him in, Dee.

I spun around.

My father sat up against the pillows, his face utterly devoid of surprise.

Not an ounce of shock.

He knew.

He had been expecting this visit.

Dad

Let him in, he repeated, his voice firm despite the weakness. I have something to tell both of you.

That afternoon, I learned the secret hed hidden for twenty years.

The year I turned ten, my father had an affair.

The woman, Lydia Shaw, was a colleague.

They were together for three years.

They had a son.

Ronan Mills.

I didnt know how to tell you. My father stared out the window, avoiding my gaze. It happened too long ago.

Too long ago?

I was thirty-two years old.

This secret had been locked away for twenty years.

Did Mom know?

Your mother knew, my father said, as if reading my mind. I cut off contact with the woman eventually. Your mother forgave me.

Forgave him.

A thick knot of somethingrage, grief, nauseacoiled in my chest, making it impossible to breathe.

And him? I pointed to Ronan, who was standing quietly by the wall. You cut off contact, but hes still here. How?

I cut off the mother, my father said. But hes my blood. I couldnt abandon him.

Couldn't abandon him.

Youve been supporting him this whole time?

My father remained silent.

Ronan answered for him, smoothly. Dad always wired money to my mother for support. He also paid for my college tuition.

Every month.

Support checks.

Tuition fees.

A memory surfaced, sharp as glass.

My senior year of high school, I wanted to take a two-week summer intensive English course. It cost two thousand dollars.

My father said it was too expensive, that it was unnecessary.

I worked three consecutive summer jobs just to save enough for a modest college exchange program.

And all the while, he was funding another womans life. Paying another childs tuition.

How much? I asked, my voice barely a thread.

Excuse me? Ronan asked.

How much did you send them every month?

My father wouldn't look at me.

Ronan said, Eight hundred dollars.

Eight hundred dollars a month.

For twenty years.

I did the math quickly.

One hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars.

Plus four years of college tuition, easily another sixty thousand.

A quarter of a million dollars, minimum.

My two-thousand-dollar summer course had been "too expensive."

His $250,000 secret family fund had been necessary.

Dad. My voice was dry and shaky. Why couldnt you have told me any of this over the years?

Told you what? My father finally looked at me, a flicker of impatience in his eyes. What good would it have done? So you could hate me?

So I could hate him.

I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms.

I dont hate you, I said. I just want to know what I meant to you.

My father didn't answer.

Ronan stepped in, his tone mild and conciliatory. Dee, let the past stay in the past. Dad isnt well right now. We shouldnt stress him out.

His voice was calm, concerned, even affectionate.

As if he were the true, devoted child of the house.

As if I were the interloper, the source of the drama.

Why are you here, Ronan? I asked him.

To see Dad, he said. And to finally meet my sister.

And what else?

He hesitated, just a breath.

Dad wants to settle his legacy.

The legacy.

He was here to claim his share.

2.

My fathers illness had been diagnosed four years ago.

Stage IV lung cancer.

The doctors gave him a year at most.

I quit my job in marketing and became his full-time caretaker.

One year turned into two, two into three, and now we were in the fourth year.

Hed had six hospital stays, three major surgeries, and over a dozen grueling rounds of chemo.

Every single time, I was the one who was there.

Making appointments, standing in lines, paying the bills, fetching medications, bathing him, wiping him down, emptying the bedpan.

Three a.m., hed cry out in pain, and Id crawl out of bed to give him a massage.

Six a.m., he wanted his oatmeal, and I had to be up by five to cook it.

Four years.

One thousand four hundred and sixty days.

I haven't had one full night of uninterrupted sleep.

My mother, Victoria, was frail and elderly herself; she could offer little help.

Relatives made symbolic visits, bringing fruit and murmuring, Youre doing great work, Dee, before disappearing completely.

I carried the entire weight of it alone.

I was thirty-two.

The age when my peers were getting married, I had no partner.

The age when I should have been building my career, I had no income.

The age when I should have been living my life, I was eating stale crackers in hospital hallways.

I'm not saying I didn't resent it.

But he was my father.

I thought I was his only child.

I thought he would remember everything I did.

Now I knew the person he remembered was someone else entirely.

A son hed hidden for twenty years.

Dad. I sat by the bed that evening. Who has been taking care of you for the last four years?

He kept his eyes closed, silent.

It was me, I answered myself. It was me who quit my job. It was me who cleaned up your mess. It was me who held your hand through surgery, who stayed awake night after endless night.

I know that, he mumbled.

And him? I gestured toward the door where Ronan was staying with my mother. Where was he for the last four years?

My father opened his eyes and looked at me.

He didnt know I was sick.

You didnt tell him?

No.

Why not?

Hes young. He has his career to focus on, my father explained. I didnt want to disrupt his life.

Didnt want to disrupt his life.

And me?

I was also young. I also had a career.

What did you say to me when I hesitated about quitting my job?

You said: Youre my daughter, Delilah. Its expected that you take care of me.

Expected.

And me? I demanded. Did you ever think about disrupting my life?

He didnt answer.

Im thirty-two, I continued. My friends are all married. Some have kids in kindergarten. What do I have? No partner, no savings, no career. For four years, I have had nothing.

Youll have it, my father said. When Im gone, youll be free.

When he was gone.

I would be free.

A hollow laugh escaped me.

Dad, do you even hear yourself?

Silence.

You say when youre gone, Ill be free, I said, standing up. So what was all this for? What does my sacrifice of the last four years amount to in your eyes?

I remember it, my father insisted.

You remember me, or you remember him?

He looked at me. His eyes held something that wasnt guilt.

It was impatience.

Delilah, can we please stop with the drama?

Stop with the drama.

I had provided four years of selfless care without a single word of complaint.

He had hidden a secret son for twenty years, and my asking about it was "drama."

Fine. I took a deep, shuddering breath. No more drama. Just tell me why Ronan Mills is here.

He came to see me.

He came for your legacy, I countered. Didnt he?

My father didn't speak.

Didnt he?

He is my son, my father finally stated. If I want to leave my assets to him, what is the problem?

His assets.

Left to his son.

What is the problem?

I stood there, feeling utterly, mortally cold.

Dad, what about me?

You are my daughter, my father said. Daughters eventually marry out. They become part of another family.

3.

That evening, I returned to the house to find Ronan standing in the living room.

He was examining the space, looking at the sofa, the TV, the family photos on the wall.

Dee. He turned, giving me that same placid smile. This house is pretty big.

It was 2,000 square feet.

It was my fathers only property. He had bought it for 400,000 years ago. Now, in this Brookline neighborhood, it was easily worth 1.2 million.

What are you looking at? I asked.

Nothing, just checking it out. His tone was light. This was Dads house, right?

Yes.

Whose name is on the deed?

I paused, taken aback by the bluntness.

My fathers name is on the deed.

Good, he nodded. Thats good to know.

Good to know?

What did he mean?

Look, Dee, Ill be direct with you. Ronan sat down on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other. Dads intention is for the house to come to me when he passes.

I felt a sharp, internal stab.

What did you say?

He said hes giving the house to me, he repeated. Plus all of his savings and investments. He mentioned it was around $4.5 million, all told.

$4.5 million.

Plus the 0-0.2 million house.

$5.7 million.

My fathers entire lifes worth.

All of it to Ronan.

Are you joking with me? I demanded.

No. Ronan took a folded paper from his pocket. This is Dads will. Its been notarized by his lawyer. You can read it.

I took the paper.

The Will.

It was written clearly:

I, Arthur Stone, hereby voluntarily bequeath my entire estate, including one property, all bank savings and investments, to my son, Ronan Mills.

My son, Ronan Mills.

Not my daughter, Delilah Stone.

I flipped the document over and saw my fathers signature, and the thick, red ink of his thumbprint.

The date was three months ago.

Three months ago, I was at the hospital, holding the basin while he threw up from chemo.

He was letting me care for him while secretly signing away everything he owned to his illegitimate son.

Dee, dont get upset, Ronan said, watching me. Dad said you worked hard these past few years. He left you a little something$50,000. Its his way of saying thank you.