Chapter 9 - The Interview
Derek made it through the first screening.
I learned that because Sam walked into my office holding a résumé.
“He’s not completely unqualified.”
“That sounds painful for you to admit.”
“It is.”
Derek had fifteen years of construction experience.
His problem had never been lack of skill.
It was discipline.
He knew job sites.
He knew subcontractors.
He could look at a project and identify problems quickly.
He was also terrible with money, deadlines, ego, and accountability.
Sam leaned against my desk.
“HR wants to know if there’s a conflict.”
“There is.”
“So?”
“I stay out.”
“If he gets hired?”
“I stay out.”
“If he gets rejected?”
“I stay out.”
Sam studied me.
“This boundary thing is getting serious.”
“It’s expensive. I’m trying to get my money’s worth.”
Derek’s interview happened Wednesday.
I made sure I was off-site.
That evening, Ava called.
“He thinks you blocked him.”
“I didn’t.”
“He says you told HR not to hire him.”
“I didn’t speak to HR.”
“He doesn’t believe that.”
“That sounds exhausting for him.”
Ava laughed.
Then she told me Derek had moved into a cheap extended-stay motel.
His business accounts were restricted while the lender dispute unfolded.
The repossessed truck had been sold at auction.
He was driving a borrowed sedan.
For once, there was no one left to bail him out.
“Do you feel bad?” Ava asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to help?”
“No.”
She paused.
“I think I finally understand the difference.”
Two days later, Derek was rejected.
Not because of me.
Because HR verified two references who described him as talented but unreliable.
He called immediately.
“You did this.”
“I didn’t.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I wasn’t part of the interview process.”
“You own part of the company.”
“I own twelve percent.”
“You could get me hired.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
That answer confused him.
“Then do it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t earn the job.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know HR rejected you.”
“You’d watch your own brother live in a motel?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sick.”
“No, Derek. I’m done turning every uncomfortable situation into an emergency I have to solve.”
“You think you’re better than me.”
“I think I’m responsible for me.”
He hung up.
Three hours later, he called back.
His voice was different.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dad really write that I forged his signature?”
I leaned back.
“Yes.”
“Did he hate me?”
The question was so unexpected I didn’t answer immediately.
“No.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because the letter was angry. Not hateful.”
He breathed quietly.
“What else did he say?”
“That he kept rescuing you because he was afraid of what would happen if he stopped.”
Another silence.
“And?”
“That every rescue made the next disaster bigger.”
Derek let out a broken laugh.
“Sounds like Dad.”
“Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
I looked toward the lockbox.
“Yes.”
He came over that night.
For the first time in years, Derek entered my apartment without criticizing it.
He sat at the kitchen table.
I handed him copies, not originals.
He read in silence.
Halfway through, tears began falling.
He wiped them angrily.
At the end, he put the pages down.
“I thought he believed in me.”
“He did.”
“This doesn’t sound like it.”
“It sounds like he was scared for you.”
Derek stared at the table.
“I kept thinking the next job would fix everything.”
“I know.”
“And then when it didn’t…”
“You borrowed more.”
He nodded.
We sat there.
Two brothers.
No group chat.
No mother between us.
No money.
Finally, he said, “I did try to transfer the twenty-four thousand.”
“I know.”
“I was going to put it back.”
“I know you believed that.”
He looked at me.
“You reported it.”
“Yes.”
“I could get charged.”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
Then relaxed.
“I hate you for that.”
“I know.”
“But…”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I think I would’ve taken more.”
That was the first honest thing Derek had said to me in years.
I didn’t forgive him that night.
But something changed.
He agreed to meet with a financial counselor.
He agreed to cooperate with the lender dispute.
He agreed to stop blaming Mom.
And most importantly, he agreed that no one in the family would give him money.
Not me.
Not Mom.
Not Ava.
He had to rebuild from income.
Before leaving, he stopped at the door.
“Nathan?”
“Yeah?”
“Why didn’t you tell us the house was yours?”
“It isn’t mine.”
“You know what I mean.”
I thought about it.
“Because I wanted all of you to keep feeling like Dad’s house was still Dad’s house.”
He looked down.
“That was stupid.”
“Probably.”
“No.”
He looked at me again.
“I mean us. We were stupid.”
Then he left.
The next morning, I received an unexpected message.
From Melissa.
She wanted to meet.
Not to apologize.
Not exactly.
She said she had discovered something while closing her failed boutique’s old accounts.
Something connected to Mom.
Something connected to Dad.
May you like
And something connected to me.
“I think,” she wrote, “your father left you money nobody ever told you about.”
