At eleven that night my doorbell rang. Clare stood outside my apartment, mascara running down her face, looking as though she’d been crying for hours straight. I let her in because I didn’t want a scene playing out in the hallway. She sat on my couch, shaking. Marcus, please, she said. I’m begging you. I stayed standing. We’re losing the house in sixty days, she said. Derek’s job is at risk. He can’t commute without a car. Tyler keeps asking why Uncle Marcus hates him. I don’t hate Tyler, I said. I hate that nobody taught him consequences. He’s nine, she said. He’s old enough to know not to destroy things, I answered. What do you want, she asked. What will make this right. I looked at her steadily. I wanted an apology before the lawsuit, I said. From you. From Derek. From Mom and Dad. I wanted you to say you were wrong to dismiss my feelings. Wrong to protect Derek automatically. Wrong to make excuses for all of it. But you didn’t. You only came after the consequences reached your own front door. I’m apologizing now, she said. Too late, I told her. Marcus. That’s not remorse, Clare, I said. That’s panic.
My Nephew Smashed My $7,000 Gibson and Everyone Said “He’s Just a Child”—Then I Saw His Dad’s Mercedes Outside
