Forgotten at Dad’s Birthday—Until I Forwarded That Email

 

Part 1

I stared at my phone, fingers trembling as I scrolled through the Instagram photos. There they all were—Mom, Scarlet, Dad, and Solomon, my ex—sitting around a beautifully set table at Venenzo’s, raising their glasses in a toast to my father’s 60th birthday. A birthday dinner I hadn’t even known was happening.

My name is Nicole, and I just discovered I’m the only member of my family who wasn’t invited to celebrate my own father’s milestone birthday. Just a casual last-minute thing, sweetie, Mom’s text read, coming in suspiciously fast after I’d viewed her story. You know how these impromptu gatherings go.

Impromptu, right?

I zoomed in on the wine bottle in the background: a 2015 Brunello di Montalcino, the exact wine I’d helped Dad pick out three weeks ago when he called asking for recommendations for a special occasion.

Everything inside me twisted with anger and disbelief. “Really?” I muttered to myself.

“Everything okay?” My best friend Kora’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. We were supposed to be having our weekly coffee catch-up, but I barely touched my latte.

“They invited Solomon,” I managed, turning my phone to show her the images. “Dad’s birthday dinner. Solomon. But not me.”

Kora’s eyes widened as she took in the photos. “That manipulative piece of—Wait, isn’t that the restaurant your dad specifically asked about last month?”

“Yep.” I let out a hollow laugh. “The one where I spent an hour researching their wine list for him. Guess now I know why.”

My phone buzzed again. Scarlet posting more photos—there she was, perfect as always, arm wrapped around Solomon’s shoulders like he hadn’t ghosted me after borrowing thousands of dollars from me, like he hadn’t spent our entire relationship convincing me I was lucky he even looked my way.

“Have you called your dad?” Kora asked gently, her concern cutting through my simmering rage.

“What’s the point?” I sighed. “He’ll just say Mom and Scarlet handled the guest list. He always stays out of it.”

I took a shaky breath. “You know what the worst part is? This isn’t even surprising. It’s just confirmation of what? That I’ve always been the outsider, the one they include when it’s convenient, and exclude when it’s not.”

I scrolled through another photo, my heart sinking. Mom, beaming at Solomon as he apparently told some hilarious story. Remember when I tried to tell them about the money he owed me? Mom said I was being dramatic. Scarlet said, “I probably misunderstood the arrangement.”

Kora reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Nicole, this is beyond messed up. You need to say something.”

I nodded slowly. “I will. I just need to get some things in order first.”

Later that evening, as I sat on the couch, laptop open, surrounded by the ghostly blue light of my screen, I couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense of betrayal. Solomon had been a snake, and he was still playing everyone for fools. But what really stung was that it wasn’t just him. My family was complicit.

I had long been excluded from important family moments, swept aside like I didn’t matter. But now, with this wedding, they’d gone too far. They were actively shutting me out of my own father’s life. And I wasn’t going to let it slide. I had the power to do something about it now.

I clicked open the folder in my email, the one labeled Solomon Legal, the one containing every manipulative message, every broken promise, every admission of debt. The one I’d kept telling myself I was just being cautious with. It was time to stop being cautious.

I glanced at my phone. Another message from Kora: “You sure about this?”

I sighed, glancing at the folder. “They thought they could just exclude me like always. They forgot something important.”

Kora responded with a single word: “What’s that?”

I typed back, feeling the anger boil over in my veins, “I’m not that person anymore.”

I clicked open a new email and began typing, my fingers steady as I wrote the words that would change everything.

To: [Dad’s Email]
Subject: Solomon – What You Need to Know

Dad,

I know this isn’t easy to hear, but you need to know the truth about Solomon and what he’s been doing. I’ve attached documentation of his pattern of financial manipulation, including bank statements, communication records, and evidence of similar behavior with other investors.

I’m not doing this out of spite, but because I can’t sit idly by while he tries to deceive you the way he did me. Please, take a look at everything I’ve sent. I’m hoping you’ll see the truth for what it is.

Love,
Nicole

I hit send and leaned back, my mind racing. I had done it. I had sent everything. And now, there would be no turning back. The storm was coming.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Solomon: “You think you can play this game, huh? I’ll make you regret it.”

I smiled, not bothering to respond. This wasn’t just about revenge anymore. This was about truth. Justice. And finally, making sure my father knew exactly what Solomon had been hiding.

The next day, I met Kora at our usual coffee shop. We sat down, and she looked at me with a mixture of concern and pride.

“You’re really going through with this, huh?” she asked, sipping her latte.

“I have to,” I said, feeling the weight of the decision on my shoulders. “This time, I won’t stay silent.”

She nodded. “But, Nicole, once this all goes public, there’s no going back. Your dad might not ever speak to you again.”

I looked out the window, seeing the world move on, unaware of the storm I had just unleashed. “Maybe he’ll understand. Maybe he’ll finally see what’s been going on.”

Kora gave me a pointed look. “And what about Mom? You think she’ll ever forgive you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice trembling. “But I don’t care anymore. I’ve been putting them first for years. I need to start living for myself.”

Just as I said that, my phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text from my father.

“We need to talk. Solomon’s got some explaining to do.”

I took a deep breath and typed back:

“I’ll be waiting.”

That evening, everything unfolded. My father called me, his voice sounding more strained than I had ever heard it. The weight of the truth was finally sinking in for him.

“I… I should have seen it,” he said, his voice faltering. “You were right about him. I failed you, Nicole. I failed you by not believing you.”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I sat alone in my apartment, holding the phone to my ear. For the first time in my life, my father was acknowledging the hurt he had caused me. The years of silence, of turning a blind eye to Solomon’s actions, were finally coming to an end.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said softly. “But we can’t undo what’s been done. We can only move forward.”

He sighed. “What now? What do we do about Solomon?”

“We expose him,” I said, my voice steady. “It’s time to make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

 

Part 2

The days after I sent the email to my father were a blur of activity. The weight of what I had done—the decision to expose Solomon—settled on me like a heavy fog. It wasn’t just a family matter anymore; it was bigger than that. I had disrupted everything, and the consequences were still unfolding.

Solomon’s face had been all over the news by the time the SEC’s investigation was made public. His fraudulent activities were finally being exposed, and with it, the intricate web of lies he had built. But the more I watched, the more I realized that this wasn’t just about one man’s downfall. It was about a family torn apart by years of manipulation, by lies told to cover up the truth. And I was right in the middle of it, trying to rebuild what had been shattered.

The phone calls from my father continued to pour in. Each one was filled with disbelief, regret, and guilt. He couldn’t believe that it had gone this far, that he had let things spiral out of control. I tried to assure him that it wasn’t his fault, that this wasn’t about him. But deep down, I knew that if he hadn’t turned a blind eye to Solomon’s actions, none of this would have happened. And yet, here we were.

One evening, just a few days after I sent the email, I received a call from my mother. I hadn’t spoken to her since everything came to light, and her voice on the other end of the line was cold, distant.

“You’ve gone too far, Nicole,” she said. “You’ve ruined everything.”

I took a deep breath. “No, Mom. He ruined everything. I’m just the one who made it known.”

“You could have kept this to yourself,” she snapped. “But you had to air our dirty laundry for the world to see.”

“I’m not airing anything, Mom. I’m just telling the truth,” I said, my voice steady. “The truth that you’ve been avoiding for years.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. I could hear her breathing, could feel the tension rising between us.

“Do you even understand what you’ve done?” she asked, her voice faltering. “You’ve torn this family apart.”

I bit my lip, trying to keep my emotions in check. “I’m sorry, Mom. But I had to do it. For me. For everyone else. You can’t protect Solomon anymore.”

“I never wanted to protect him,” she whispered. “I just wanted to protect you… I didn’t know how to handle what you were doing.”

“Mom, I’ve been telling you the truth for years. You’ve just been too busy pretending like everything’s perfect to listen.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice finally breaking. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

I felt a lump form in my throat. This wasn’t how I imagined things would unfold. I never thought I’d hear my mother apologize. It felt like too little too late.

But I also knew that forgiveness couldn’t be rushed. It wasn’t something that could happen overnight. It would take time.

“I’ll talk to you later, Mom,” I said, my voice gentle but firm. “We’ll figure it out. But right now, I need to focus on moving forward.”

As I hung up the phone, I felt an odd mix of emotions. Relief. Anger. Sadness. It wasn’t over, not yet. But at least the first step toward healing had begun.

The following weeks were a whirlwind of activity. The SEC’s investigation into Solomon’s fraudulent activities intensified, and more investors came forward with claims of financial manipulation. News outlets were covering the story, and Gabriel’s name was being dragged through the mud. Everything he had built was crumbling, and for once, I didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt. He deserved this.

But amidst the chaos, there was something I hadn’t expected. As the truth about Solomon came to light, I began to notice a change in the way people viewed me. I wasn’t the “black sheep” of the family anymore. I wasn’t the one who was wrong. I was the one who had uncovered the truth, the one who had stood up for what was right. For the first time in years, I felt like I had control of my own narrative.

I could see it in my father’s eyes. The realization that he had failed me, that he had allowed Solomon’s toxic influence to take root in their family, was slowly sinking in. I could see the remorse, the regret, but also something else—a glimmer of hope. He was finally starting to see the truth, starting to see me. And that meant everything.

Jonathan was there by my side through it all, helping me navigate the complexities of the situation. He had always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. He was the one person who never judged me for what happened in the past. He saw me for who I truly was—not just the woman who had been wronged, but the woman who had taken her life back.

And then, one day, as the dust settled from all the chaos, Jonathan asked me the question I had been dreading.

“Nicole,” he said gently, “are you ready to let go of the past?”

I looked at him, unsure of how to answer. “I don’t know if I can,” I said honestly. “There’s so much I’ve been holding onto. The hurt, the betrayal… it’s hard to let go of that.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But you can’t keep carrying it with you. The weight is too heavy. You’ve made it through the hardest part.”

“I’m scared,” I admitted. “Scared of what happens when I let go. What if I forget everything that happened? What if it all gets lost in the past?”

“You won’t forget,” he said, squeezing my hand. “But you’ll stop letting it control you. You’ll finally be free.”

I took a deep breath, looking out the window at the city below. I could see the skyline, the endless possibilities that stretched ahead. The future felt like a blank page, ready to be filled with new stories, new adventures.

I finally understood. Letting go wasn’t about forgetting. It was about moving forward, about choosing to live for today and not be haunted by the past. It was about building a future, not just for myself, but for those I loved.

The next day, I went to the courthouse to finalize my divorce. It wasn’t something I had imagined doing this soon, but it felt right. Gabriel’s world was collapsing, and I was finally free of him. The papers were signed, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.

A few weeks later, I stood in the courtroom, waiting for the judge to announce the final ruling in Solomon’s case. He had been arrested for multiple counts of financial fraud and manipulation, and his empire was crumbling just like Gabriel’s.

As I watched the proceedings, I thought about how far I had come. The woman who once felt worthless, who had been dismissed and disregarded, had now become someone unshakable, someone who fought for what was right.

Solomon pled guilty to all charges, and the courtroom erupted in applause. It felt like a victory, not just for me, but for everyone who had been affected by his lies.

 

Part 3

The day Solomon pled guilty, the courtroom felt too small for everything hanging in the air.

The judge’s words were measured and dry, but every sentence landed like a gavel slamming inside my chest. Multiple counts of wire fraud. Investor deception. Identity misrepresentation. Restitution ordered. Prison time recommended.

When the murmurs started to ripple through the rows behind me, I didn’t join them. I just sat there, hands clasped so tightly in my lap my knuckles were white.

Solomon—Gabriel Solomon Reyes on the paperwork, “Solomon” to everyone who thought his expensive watch and easy charm meant he was trustworthy—stood there in a suit that suddenly looked cheap. He didn’t glance at me. Maybe he didn’t dare. Maybe he didn’t care.

Once, I’d thought marrying him meant the beginning of my life. That divorce paper I’d signed a few weeks earlier felt, in hindsight, like the real beginning.

When it was over, when the judge banged the gavel for the last time and the bailiff started calling for the next case, I stood up on shaky legs.

“You okay?” Jonathan’s voice came from my left, warm and steady. He’d taken time off work to be here, even though I told him he didn’t have to.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

We walked out of the courthouse together, the mid-morning sun too bright after the artificial courtroom lighting. Reporters thronged near the steps, their cameras swinging toward anyone who looked even vaguely connected.

One woman called out, “Nicole, is it true you were married to him when he started the fund?”

“Ms. Hayes, do you regret coming forward?”

“Do you have anything to say to other women in your position?”

Other women in my position.

I paused, one foot on the concrete, the other still on the steps. For a second, I thought of the Nicole who would’ve ducked her head and rushed past, apologizing for existing in the background of someone else’s story.

I wasn’t her anymore.

“I regret trusting him,” I said, meeting the reporter’s gaze. “I don’t regret telling the truth.”

Microphones edged closer. Phones appeared like a field of black rectangles.

“Are you worried about your safety, now that he’s going to prison?” someone asked.

I thought about Solomon’s text—You think you can play this game, huh? I’ll make you regret it—and the way it no longer made my stomach drop, just my lip curl.

“I was more worried when I kept quiet,” I answered. “That’s over now.”

Jonathan’s hand settled at the small of my back, gentle but not possessive. We moved through the crowd like a ship cutting through water, leaving noise and cameras behind.

By the time I got home, my phone was buzzing nonstop.

Dad called twice. I let it go to voicemail the first time. The second time, I exhaled and answered.

“Dad?”

He didn’t waste time on small talk. “I watched the livestream,” he said. His voice sounded older than I remembered, roughened at the edges. “They said you brought them a lot of that evidence.”

“Yeah.”

A pause. I could hear the faint hum of his air conditioner in the background, a sound that dragged me straight back to sticky summer afternoons in our old house.

“The email you sent me,” he said slowly, “I forwarded it to my buddy Ron, the one in compliance? He’s the one who told me to take it to the SEC. I thought maybe they’d…talk to Solomon. I didn’t think it’d turn into—” His breath hitched. “This.”

“That email saved you, Dad,” I said quietly. “If you’d signed the documents he pushed in front of you, you would’ve lost everything. The house. Your retirement. Mom’s future.”

“I still lost a lot,” he muttered.

“I know.” I swallowed. “I did too.”

There was another long silence. Then, unexpectedly: “Nicole…if you hadn’t forwarded that email, if you hadn’t…kept all that stuff…he’d still be out there. I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you tried to tell me before. I’m sorry it took losing my money for me to believe you.”

The words hit harder than the judge’s sentence.

“I appreciate that,” I said, because I did. But appreciation didn’t erase the years.

“Your mother wants to have you over,” he added. “For dinner. To talk. She…she’s been upset.”

Upset. That was one word for it.

“She already told me I ‘ruined everything,’” I said. “I think we have different definitions of ‘everything.’”

He sighed. “Just come by, kiddo. Please.”

Kiddo.

He hadn’t called me that since before Solomon. Before the birthday I wasn’t invited to. Before I became the one you leave off the guest list.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

Which was more than I would’ve said a year ago.

A week later, I found myself pulling into my parents’ driveway, my stomach knotted so tightly I was surprised I could breathe.

The house looked smaller than it did in my memory. The paint was a little more faded, the hedges a little more overgrown. But the same ceramic frog still sat beside the front step, chipped on one eye from when Scarlet and I used it as third base in a backyard softball game.

I remembered landing there, scraped knees and all, and Dad scooping Scarlet up, laughing, spinning her around. I remembered him glancing at me and saying, “You’re fine, Nic. You’re tough,” before going back to cheering Scarlet on.

Tough. Translation: you don’t need comfort.

I took a deep breath and knocked.

Mom opened the door, every hair in place, lips painted a careful shade of rose. She looked like she was about to host a ladies’ luncheon, not a come-to-Jesus family meeting.

“Nicole,” she said, like tasting whether the name was sour or sweet today.

“Hi, Mom.”

She stepped aside. “Come in.”

The house smelled like lemon cleaner and garlic, a combination that made my nose wrinkle. The dining table was set for four—nice plates, cloth napkins, candles that hadn’t been lit yet.

“Scarlet’s on her way,” Mom said briskly. “Your father’s in his office.”

His office. The small room off the hallway where he used to stash his paperwork and his “don’t touch” tools. I’d once imagined I’d have an office like that someday. Instead, I had a small desk in the corner of my one-bedroom apartment and a shelf that doubled as a nightstand.

I knocked on the half-open door.

Dad sat at his desk, hunched over a stack of envelopes. There were more papers piled on every surface—bills, legal notices, letters from the bank.

He looked up and gave me a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey.”

He stood, and we did that awkward half-hug people do when they’re not sure of the rules anymore. His shirt smelled faintly like aftershave and stress.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the worn chair across from his desk. “We’ve got some things to go over.”

He picked up a folder and handed it to me. Inside were printouts—account balances, debt statements, payment plans. Numbers that made my chest tighten just looking at them.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“Bad,” he admitted. “Not as bad as it could’ve been. I pulled some money out when the first rumors started. I didn’t invest as much as some of the guys in my group. But…I put in enough.”

He tapped a page where his retirement account balance was slashed nearly in half.

“The rest of what we had?” he said. “The house, Mom’s little savings account, her jewelry…if I’d signed the documents Solomon brought me that week, all of that would’ve been tied up in his fund too. Your email…made me stop. Made me look twice.”

He looked up, and this time his eyes did meet mine.

“I’m not exaggerating when I say you probably saved our house.”

I stared at the numbers, then at him.

“You almost signed it over,” I said. “After everything he did to me, after I begged you to listen…you almost gave him the rest of your life.”

He winced. “I know.”

“And you still invited him to your birthday instead of me.”

The words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t take them back.

He exhaled heavily, sinking back into his chair. “I didn’t… I didn’t invite you for him, Nic. I let your mother handle the list because I didn’t want to fight about it.”

“So you knew I wasn’t invited.”

His silence was answer enough.

“I told myself you’d be busy,” he muttered. “That maybe you’d show up later. I didn’t want…drama. I just wanted a nice dinner.”

“A nice dinner with my ex-husband,” I said, my throat burning, “who owed me money and was still actively scamming people, including you. And I wasn’t invited because you didn’t want ‘drama.’”

He flinched like I’d slapped him.

“I’m a coward,” he said quietly. “There. I said it. I didn’t want to pick sides between my daughter and the man my wife and other daughter thought was charming and successful. I wanted to believe you were exaggerating. It was easier.”

“That’s the thing, Dad,” I said. “You always wanted easy. Easy meant siding with whoever was loudest, or whoever kept things looking good on the outside. Easy meant telling me I was dramatic instead of admitting something ugly was happening right in front of you.”

His eyes glistened, but he didn’t look away.

Before either of us could say anything else, the front door opened and Scarlet’s voice carried down the hallway.

“Mom? Sorry, traffic was insane. Do not even start without me, I swear—”

She stopped dead when she saw me in the office doorway.

“Oh,” she said, lips tightening. “You’re here.”

“Hi, Scar,” I said.

She looked me up and down like I was an outfit she wasn’t sure she liked. Perfectly blown-out hair, flawless makeup, coat draped over her shoulders like a cape—she had always known how to perform perfection.

Mom’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!”

We moved to the dining room, the four of us taking our seats like actors in a play we hadn’t rehearsed nearly enough.

For a few minutes, we pretended this was normal. Passed bread. Commented on the roast. Asked polite questions about work and weather and mutual acquaintances.

Then Scarlet set her fork down with a deliberate clink.

“So,” she said, eyes locked on me. “How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?” I asked.

“Winning.” Her smile was thin. “You got exactly what you wanted. Solomon’s in prison, Dad’s a mess, Mom barely sleeps, and every time I post a brand collab, the comments are full of people asking if I’m ‘that girl who dated the fraud.’ Was it worth it?”

The flames in the candles flickered, throwing shadows across her face.

I swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes that suddenly tasted like sand.

“Do you think I enjoyed any of this?” I asked quietly. “Do you think sending that email was fun for me? That watching someone I once loved go to prison has been some kind of twisted entertainment?”

“Well, you sure seem to be doing fine,” she snapped. “You’re the hero now, right? The whistleblower. The brave one. Meanwhile, my entire brand is radioactive. No one wants to touch anything with my name on it because of him.”

“Because of him,” I repeated. “Not me. Him.”

“You didn’t have to make it public,” she said. “You could have just…warned us quietly. Talked to us. Instead, you forwarded that email and now half of Dad’s friends won’t even talk to him because they’re embarrassed they got sucked in. We’re the joke of the neighborhood.”

Dad cleared his throat. “Scarlet—”

“No, let her talk,” I said, surprising even myself.

Scarlet glared at me. “He was going to invest in my business, Nicole. Do you have any idea what that would’ve meant for me? For my future? I could’ve launched my own line, not just shill other people’s products.”

“And he would’ve used you to funnel more money out of people who trusted you,” I said. “Like he used me.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

I looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time I saw past the curated exterior. Her eyes were tired. Her fingers tapped nervously against the stem of her wineglass.

“I didn’t do this to you,” I said softly. “I did this because he did it to all of us. He lied to me. He lied to Dad. He lied to every investor who thought they were securing their future. I forwarded that email because if I didn’t, he was going to keep taking from people who couldn’t afford it.”

“You still could’ve…warned me,” she whispered. “Sister to sister.”

“I tried,” I said. “Remember? When I first told you he owed me money? You called me ‘embarrassing’ for bringing it up at brunch.”

She looked down.

Mom finally spoke. “Enough,” she murmured. “Scarlet, your sister was right about him. I know it hurts. But that’s not her fault.”

Scarlet’s head jerked up, shock flickering across her face. “So you’re taking her side now?”

“I’m not taking sides,” Mom said, lying without meaning to. “I’m trying to…to see clearly, for once.” She looked at me, and in her gaze I saw something like mourning. “I spent so long pretending everything was fine, I didn’t realize how much damage that did.”

A silence settled over the table, thick and awkward.

Finally, Dad pushed his plate away.

“I can’t change what I did,” he said. “I can’t pretend I didn’t choose easy over right. But I can tell you this: that email Nicole forwarded? It may have cost us reputation and money and comfort, but it also kept Solomon from taking more. It kept him from taking all of it. It kept him from taking us even further down with him.”

He looked at me.

“I should’ve invited you to my birthday,” he said simply. “I should’ve kicked him out the moment you told me what he’d done. I should’ve believed my own daughter instead of some guy with a smile and a pitch deck.”

My chest tightened. Recognition. Accountability. Two things I’d given up hope of ever hearing from him.

“I can’t promise I know how to fix this,” he went on. “I can’t promise I won’t screw up again. But I can promise I’m done letting other people decide who my family is for me.”

The words landed in the space between us like something fragile and precious.

Scarlet looked away, blinking fast. Mom twisted her napkin in her hands.

I set my fork down, my appetite gone.

“I’m not ready to just…pretend none of this happened,” I said. “You’re not going to get the version of me who laughs it off and says, ‘It’s okay, Dad, don’t worry about it.’ It’s not okay. It may never be. But I’m here. And that’s more than I thought I’d ever be willing to give again.”

He nodded slowly. “I’ll take ‘here.’”

The rest of dinner was quieter. Still tense, but less brittle. Afterward, as I walked out to my car, Dad followed me onto the porch.

The night air was cool against my cheeks. Streetlights cast puddles of yellow on the pavement.

“Hey,” he said softly. “One more thing.”

I turned.

He held out a folded piece of paper. I took it and unfolded it.

It was a printed copy of my email. The one I’d sent weeks ago, attachments and all. Sections were underlined. Margins were filled with tiny, cramped notes in his handwriting.

“I’ve read it…a lot,” he admitted. “Every time I start to slip into thinking maybe Solomon just made a few mistakes, I read it again and remember. I remember that you tried to warn me. That you were the only one telling the truth.”

I looked up at him, my throat tight.

“I don’t know who we are now,” I said. “As a family. As…you and me. But I know who I am. And I can’t go back to being the person you forget to invite.”

“You won’t be,” he said.

I didn’t take that as a promise. I took it as a hope.

For tonight, that was enough.

 

Part 4

Six months later, Denver slid from late summer into early fall, and my father turned sixty-one.

The world had moved on from Solomon’s scandal in the way the world always does—fast and shallow. A new fraudster, a new headline, a new outrage. But for the people who’d been in his orbit, the tremors still echoed.

Dad had joined a support group for victims of financial scams, mostly retirees and small business owners. Mom had stopped wearing her big diamond earrings, the ones she’d always called her “I married well” gift. They sat in a box now, waiting to be appraised.

Scarlet shifted her brand. Less “aspirational luxury,” more “relatable rebuilding.” She posted about “toxic relationships” and “financial red flags,” suddenly positioning herself as an expert on getting out of bad situations. The comments were a mix of sympathy and skepticism.

As for me, I went to therapy.

Every Wednesday at four, I sat on a soft gray couch and told a stranger with kind eyes and a legal pad about the years of being the expendable one. About the birthday I watched happen through my screen. About the email I forwarded that changed everything.

“You didn’t just forward evidence,” my therapist said once. “You forwarded a version of yourself they couldn’t ignore anymore. That’s scary—for them and for you.”

Jonathan and Kora were my constants. We had game nights instead of going out, cheap pizza and laughter spilling over my worn couch. Sometimes we talked about everything. Sometimes we talked about nothing. Both felt like relief.

I’d almost decided to ignore Dad’s birthday altogether. Let the date slide past like any other day. Then, a week before, I got an email from Mom.

Subject: Dinner for Dad

Nicole,

We’re planning a small dinner for your father’s birthday next Friday. Just us. No guests. We would really like you to be there.

I know we can’t erase what happened last year. I’m not asking you to pretend it didn’t hurt. But I am asking you to consider giving us a chance to do it differently this time.

Love,
Mom

I stared at the screen for a long time.

“Just us” could mean a lot of things in my family.

I called Kora.

“If I go, am I an idiot?” I asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe you’re someone who still believes people can change. Which, frankly, might be crazier.”

“Helpful.”

She laughed softly. “Look, Nic. You don’t owe them your presence. You don’t owe them forgiveness. But if you want to see whether they meant any of the things they said that night, this is a way to find out. Just…set your own rules.”

“My rules?”

“You decide what you will and won’t tolerate. You’re not walking in there as the kid hoping they’ll pick you this time. You’re walking in as the woman who forwarded the email that forced them to see you.”

I thought about it for a day, then wrote back.

I’ll come.

On one condition: no surprises. No extra “friends,” no financial pitches, no making the night about Solomon or what he did. If it’s about Dad, then it’s about Dad.

Mom replied an hour later.

Agreed.

The night of the dinner, I arrived at Venenzo’s ten minutes early.

The last time I’d seen the inside of the restaurant, it was through a stranger’s Instagram story. This time, the hostess greeted me with a professional smile.

“Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”

“Hayes,” I said. “Party of four.”

She checked the screen and nodded. “They’re not here yet, but your table is ready if you’d like to be seated.”

That fact—that I was early and they weren’t—hit me weirdly hard. I’d half-expected to walk in and see them already laughing over appetizers, my seat occupied by someone more convenient.

“Sure,” I said.

She led me through the softly lit dining room. The same warm wood paneling, the same framed black-and-white photos of Italy on the walls. The same wine rack against the far wall, bottles stacked like promises.

We stopped at a corner table set for four. I slid into one of the chairs, heart pounding louder than the quiet music.

A server brought water. I scanned the wine list, more out of habit than interest. There it was again: the 2015 Brunello di Montalcino. The one Dad and I had talked about last year, back when I thought that conversation meant we were planning something together.

“Still a fan?”

I looked up.

Dad stood beside the table, coat draped over his arm. His hair was more gray than before, lines deeper around his eyes, but his smile was…soft.

“Yeah,” I said. “Still a fan.”

He sat down across from me.

“It’s good you got here first,” he said. “Gives us a minute.”

I toyed with the edge of my napkin. “Where’s Mom?”

“Parking. She insisted on driving herself because she ‘doesn’t trust the valet after the last time.’” He made air quotes, and I almost smiled.

Scarlet swept in a few minutes later, all neutral tones and understated jewelry. Gone were the flashy labels. She hugged Dad, then Mom, then paused slightly as she turned to me.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

We hugged—quick and stiff, but it was more physical contact than we’d had in years.

Once we were seated and had ordered, Dad cleared his throat.

“So,” he said. “I made it to sixty-one.”

“Barely,” Scarlet muttered, earning a look from Mom.

He laughed, then sobered. “Last year, I blew it. On a lot of levels. Tonight, I wanted to start fixing some of that. I know one dinner isn’t going to magically…repair everything. But I wanted you to know I’m trying.”

A server arrived with the Brunello. Dad had ordered a bottle without consulting me, but when he nodded for me to inspect the label, it felt less like him taking charge and more like him…including me.

“Good choice,” I said, and meant it.

We watched as the server poured a small taste into Dad’s glass. He swirled, sniffed, sipped, nodded. The ritual was almost absurdly familiar.

When everyone had wine, Dad raised his glass.

“I have a toast,” he said. “First, to making it through the worst year of my life without completely losing my mind.”

We chuckled.

“Second,” he continued, “to the person who probably kept it from getting even worse. To Nicole.”

The words hung in the air. My throat closed.

“Dad,” I started, but he lifted a hand to stop me.

“I’m serious,” he said. “If you hadn’t forwarded that email, if you hadn’t kept records, if you hadn’t found the courage to blow the whistle when you knew it would make you the villain in every family story…Solomon would still be out there. I’d be broker. Mom would be in a worse situation. The people in my support group would still be writing checks to him instead of to their grandkids’ college funds.”

He looked at me, eyes bright.

“You turned his birthday dinner into the worst decision I ever made. And then you turned around and gave me the information that might end up being the best decision I ever made. I don’t know how to live with those two truths yet. But I’m trying.”

My vision blurred. I blinked hard.

Scarlet spoke up, voice quieter than I’d ever heard it in public.

“I lost followers,” she said. “I lost sponsorships. I lost…face. And for a while, I blamed you. I told myself that if you’d just played along, if you’d kept it quiet, maybe we could’ve fixed it behind the scenes.”

She twisted her napkin.

“But the truth is, I thought I was smarter than you,” she admitted. “I thought I had better instincts, better taste, better…everything. I looked at your life and told myself you were jealous of mine. And then the whole thing exploded, and the only one standing in the rubble with a plan was you.”

Mom inhaled sharply.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Scarlet went on. “I just…need you to know I see it now. I see what it cost you, not just to be ignored, but to be the one who decided you weren’t going to be ignored anymore.”

That was the thing about apology—when it was real, it didn’t come wrapped in self-justification. It came in the form of owning what you’d done and leaving space for the other person to decide what happened next.

“I spent my whole life trying to be the easy daughter,” I said slowly. “The one who didn’t cause trouble. The one who adjusted, who swallowed things, who made excuses for everyone else. Forwarding that email was the opposite of easy. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done.”

“We know,” Mom said, eyes glassy. “And we were wrong to make you think you had to keep quiet. We were wrong about…a lot of things.” She took a breath that sounded like it scraped on the way in. “Including that birthday dinner.”

The room seemed to tilt, just a little.

“I thought,” she said, “if we invited you, there would be a scene. I pictured you confronting Solomon, yelling, maybe crying. I pictured other tables staring. I pictured…mess. And I thought if I just kept you and him apart, we could have one nice evening without any of that.”

She winced.

“That’s what I told myself,” she said. “But the truth is, I was more worried about appearances than your feelings. I didn’t want to deal with any ugliness. So I cut you out. Again.”

The word again landed with a weight she didn’t try to dodge.

“I used to tell myself you were the strong one,” she whispered. “That you didn’t need coddling. That Scarlet was fragile and you were tough. It made it easier to justify giving her more attention, more protection. But strength doesn’t mean you don’t need love.”

My chest hurt in a way that felt almost…good. Like a knot being worked loose.

“You don’t owe us,” she said. “Not your presence, not your forgiveness, not your understanding. But if you’re willing to keep answering our calls, to keep sitting at our table…we’re going to try to deserve that.”

I looked at the three of them—the man who’d finally said out loud that he chose easy over right, the sister who’d stepped down from her pedestal long enough to admit she’d been condescending and cruel, the mother who’d spent decades polishing the family image while letting one piece of it slip further and further away.

They were not suddenly perfect. They were not all better. They were just…trying.

And I realized something: I wasn’t here because I needed them to choose me.

I was here because I had chosen myself first. The rest was optional.

“I can’t promise I won’t flinch when my phone lights up with a family group chat,” I said. “I can’t promise I won’t remember that photo every time I see a Venenzo’s tag. There’s a lot that’s going to take time.”

“We’ve got time,” Dad said.

“But,” I added, “I came tonight because I wanted to see if we could do better. And for the first time in a long time, I believe we might.”

We clinked glasses. The Brunello was smooth and rich, everything the sommelier blogs promised. The food was good. The conversation stayed raw around the edges, but nobody pretended we were in a holiday commercial.

At one point, Dad pulled out a crumpled envelope.

“This came in the mail yesterday,” he said. “From one of the guys I used to invest with. He moved to Florida years ago. We lost touch. But he got ahold of my email—you know, from when I forwarded your message around to warn everyone—and he wanted to send you something.”

He slid the envelope across the table. I opened it.

Inside was a handwritten note.

Nicole,

Your father sent me the email you wrote about Solomon. I’m one of the investors who pulled my money out because of it. I just wanted to say thank you.

When you grow up being told not to make waves, it takes courage to do what you did. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

Enclosed is a small token. Not because you owe me anything, but because the world owes you a little more than you’ve been given.

Keep making waves.

– Bill

A check was tucked inside—nothing life-changing, but more than I made in a week at my job.

I stared at it, throat tight.

“You can frame the letter,” Jonathan said later, when I told him about it. “Or cash the check and frame a photocopy. Either way, that’s someone who sees you.”

“Yeah,” I said.

But the truth was, I’d started to see myself long before any of them had. The email I forwarded had forced them to catch up.

 

Part 5

A year after Solomon’s sentencing, my father’s sixty-second birthday landed on a Sunday.

By then, my life looked different in small but significant ways.

I’d been promoted at work—nothing flashy, just a new title and a little more pay, but it felt like validation that my skills were more than a footnote in someone else’s narrative. Jonathan and I had moved in together, combining my battered hand-me-down furniture with his minimalist Ikea pieces into something that actually felt like home.

Kora had started dating someone who made her cheeks flush when she talked about him. Watching her navigate new love without losing herself was like seeing a healthier version of my own story play out.

My parents and I texted semi-regularly. Sometimes it was practical—questions about paperwork, updates on Dad’s support group, links to articles about scam awareness. Sometimes it was small—photos of their dog, a meme Mom didn’t fully understand but sent anyway. Sometimes it was bigger—late-night messages from Dad admitting he’d been tempted by another “too good to be true” opportunity and had talked himself out of it by rereading my email.

“Forwarded it to myself again,” he joked once. “Just to make sure Past Me keeps Future Me in check.”

Scarlet and I weren’t best friends, but we weren’t strangers. Every so often, she’d call to rant about trolls in her comments or to ask my opinion on a brand partnership contract.

“You’re the only one I know who reads terms and conditions,” she’d groan.

“Because I learned the hard way what happens when you don’t,” I’d remind her.

That Sunday, Dad asked if he could host a small get-together at their house.

“Nothing fancy,” he promised. “Just burgers, cake, maybe some of the neighbors. You and Jonathan, of course. Kora too, if she wants to come. Scarlet’s bringing a guy she’s sort of seeing, so I figured I should have backup.”

“You’re inviting my friends,” I said slowly.

He laughed. “If I only invited my friends, it’d be me, Ron from compliance, and three guys from the support group who talk about fishing more than anything else. I want people there who matter to you.”

It was such a simple thing, but it lodged under my ribs.

The day dawned clear and bright. By afternoon, the backyard was filled with the smell of grilling meat and the sound of overlapping conversations.

String lights zigzagged over the patio. The ceramic frog had migrated outside, now guarding a patch of overwatered basil. A folding table held potato salad, coleslaw, and a cake with slanted blue icing that read, “Happy 62, Hank!” in Scarlet’s careful cursive.

I walked out carrying a tray of condiments and stopped dead.

There, on the folding table next to the cake, was a framed photo.

It was from my eighth birthday. My hair was a frizzy, tangled mess, my front teeth missing, my unicorn T-shirt stained with frosting. Dad knelt beside me, one arm looped around my shoulders, both of us grinning like idiots at the camera.

I remembered that day. Remembered blowing out candles while kids from school chanted, remembered Scarlet complaining because my cake had more sprinkles than hers had the year before. Remembered Dad picking me up afterward, spinning me around until I was dizzy.

I hadn’t thought about it in years.

“You found that?” I asked.

Dad appeared beside me, spatula in hand. “Your mother keeps everything,” he said. “She had a whole bin of old photos in the attic. I saw this one and…well. It felt right.”

I traced the edge of the frame with my thumb.

“Last year,” he said quietly, “when I looked around that restaurant table and didn’t see you there, I told myself I’d make it up to you somehow. It just took me a while to admit that you can’t ‘make up’ for leaving someone out of their own family. You can only stop doing it.”

He nodded toward the guests.

“See that woman by the fence?” he said. “That’s Linda. She almost invested with Solomon. Your email was what made her husband insist they stay out of it. That guy by the grill? Sam. He lost money, but not as much as he could have because he pulled out early after the SEC announcement. They’re here because they wanted to meet the person who stuck her neck out.”

I glanced around. Faces I barely knew, some waving when they caught my eye, some simply chatting and filling space that used to be occupied by people who worshipped appearances and easy gains.

“You’re not a cautionary tale in this yard,” he said. “You’re the reason we’re all still standing in it.”

Emotion swelled in my chest, messy and complicated and real.

“Dad,” I said slowly, “why did it take you so long to see me?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand. He didn’t deflect with a joke.

“I grew up in a house where feelings were…inconvenient,” he said. “You were either useful or you were trouble. I learned to keep my head down, to go along with the person who yelled loudest. When your mother wanted things a certain way, I let her have them. It kept the peace.”

He shook his head.

“I thought I was doing the same thing with you,” he admitted. “Keeping the peace by smoothing things over, telling you you were tough, that you could handle being sidelined. I didn’t realize I was teaching you that your pain was the price of our comfort.”

He met my eyes.

“I can’t undo that. I can’t go back and invite you to all the dinners and trips and decisions I let you miss. But I can make damn sure you’re not forgotten now. Not on my watch. Not at my table.”

He gestured to the open backyard, to the extra folding chairs, to the way Scarlet and Mom were waving us over with matching exasperation.

“You get to decide whether you want that,” he said. “Staying is a choice. So is leaving. I’ll love you either way.”

It was such an un-Dad thing to say that for a second I wondered if someone had swapped him out for a more emotionally literate clone.

Then he added, “Also, if you don’t come eat this burger, I’m going to have to give it to Sam, and he already stole the good tongs,” and I recognized him again.

Jonathan appeared at my elbow, slipping his hand into mine. “You okay?” he murmured.

I looked around the yard—the grill smoke curling toward a blue sky, the cake waiting to be cut, the framed photo of Dad and eight-year-old me, the people who’d been hurt and saved and reshaped by an email I’d once agonized over.

I thought of Kora, laughing with Scarlet’s maybe-boyfriend by the punch bowl. Of Mom, fussing with napkins and plates, occasionally glancing over to make sure I was still there. Of Dad, waiting for my answer even though the party was already in full swing.

“I’m not forgotten,” I said.

“Not even close,” Jonathan replied.

I squeezed his hand and stepped forward, toward the table, toward my father, toward the life I’d started building the moment I refused to disappear quietly.

Later, after the sun dipped low and the neighbors went home and the string lights glowed softly over the now-empty plates, Dad and I sat on the back steps, listening to the cicadas.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling for a second before turning the screen toward me.

On it was the original email I’d sent him. The subject line still read: Solomon – What You Need to Know.

“I starred it,” he said. “Pinned it to the top. Every time I feel tempted to ignore something because it’s uncomfortable, I read it. It reminds me that truth doesn’t wait for convenient timing.”

He locked the phone and slid it back into his pocket.

“You forwarded that email to me,” he said. “I forwarded it to some friends. The government forwarded parts of it to other victims. It traveled further than you know. It didn’t just expose Solomon. It exposed all the places we’d let someone else write our story for us.”

He smiled, lines deepening at the corners of his eyes.

“From now on,” he said, “if there’s a story about our family, I want you in it from the beginning. Not watching from a screen. Not filling in the gaps from the outside. At the table. Where you belong.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder, something I hadn’t done since I was a teenager.

“I can’t promise I’ll always show up,” I said honestly. “But if I don’t, it won’t be because you forgot to invite me. It’ll be because I’m choosing somewhere else I need to be.”

“Fair,” he said. “Just…send me an email first.”

I laughed, the sound surprising both of us.

“Deal,” I said.

We sat there in the warm night, the echo of past betrayals still present, but quieter. Not gone. Not erased. Just…put in their place.

Once, I’d been the girl forgotten at her own father’s birthday.

Now, I was the woman who’d forwarded an email that blew up an illusion and rebuilt a life—mine, and everyone else’s, too.

I couldn’t choose the family I’d been born into. But I could choose who got a seat at my table, who got a say in my story, who got an invitation when the next milestone rolled around.

And this time, I knew one thing for sure:

I would never again forget to include myself.

THE END!

Disclaimer: Our stories are inspired by real-life events but are carefully rewritten for entertainment. Any resemblance to actual people or situations is purely coincidental.