Chapter 8 - The Clean Slate
By the spring of the following year, the storm had completely cleared.
Julian’s law license was officially suspended by the state bar for twelve months following the audit findings and the ethics investigation. He moved out of Chicago entirely, taking a low-level research position at a regional firm in southern Indiana, far away from the country clubs, the mahogany boardrooms, and the high-society circles he had sacrificed everything to belong to.
He tried to call Noah once, six months after the court order expired, after completing three court-ordered counseling sessions.
Noah answered the phone himself on the kitchen landline.
I stood near the sink, holding my breath, ready to step in if needed.
"Hello, Dad," Noah said calmly.
I couldn't hear Julian’s voice, but I could hear the desperate, emotional stream of words pouring through the receiver.
Noah listened for two full minutes without interrupting. He didn't cry. He didn't get angry. He stood by the kitchen window, watching the rain hit the glass.
"I got your letter, Dad," Noah said into the receiver. "And it's okay. I'm not mad at you."
A pause followed as Julian spoke again.
"No, Dad," Noah said gently, cutting him off. "I don't want to come to Indiana for the weekend. I have soccer practice, and Mom and I are building a garden box on Saturday."
Noah picked up a pencil from the counter, tapping it idly against his notepad.
"I hope you're doing better, Dad," Noah added softly. "Goodbye."
Noah hung up the phone. He didn't look sad. He looked relieved—like a boy who had finally put down a heavy box he had been carrying for way too long.
May you like
He turned to me, a bright, genuine smile spreading across his face. "Mom, can we go to Home Depot after dinner? We need to get the cedar boards for the tomatoes."
"Yes, sweetie," I smiled, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. "We can get whatever you want."
