I wrote three checks over six months: $200,000 in May, another $200,000 in August, and $120,000 in November. I transferred the money into an account Christopher set up for renovations.
And I didn’t ask for a contract.
I didn’t ask for collateral.
I didn’t even ask for a formal repayment plan.
I could almost hear Catherine’s voice.
Brian, you teach due diligence and fiduciary responsibility. Don’t you owe yourself the same standard?
But I’d waved away those concerns—real or imagined.
This was different, I told myself. This was family. This was trust. This was what fathers did.
Maybe that was my first mistake.
I’d spent more than three decades in lecture halls teaching students about business ethics and risk management. I’d graded hundreds of case studies on entrepreneurs who lost everything because they mixed personal feelings with financial decisions.
I knew better.
Hell, I’d taught better.
But knowing and doing are different things.
“I’ll check my email tonight,” I told Natalie, setting down my mug harder than I meant to. “And I’d like to talk to Christopher directly. Is he available?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“He’s been really busy with the soft opening,” she said. “I’m handling the administrative side, but I’ll let him know you called.”
Soft opening.
The words stopped me cold.
“Natalie,” I said slowly. “When did the hotel open?”
She hesitated just long enough for me to know I wouldn’t like the answer.
“About ten weeks ago,” she said. “We didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Christopher was nervous about the pressure—about meeting expectations. We thought it’d be better to ease into things quietly.”
Ten weeks. Two and a half months.
My son had opened a hotel I’d funded with over half a million dollars, and no one had told me.
“I see,” I said, though I didn’t see at all.
“I’ll resend the invoice,” Natalie said brightly, as if the hard part of the conversation was over. “Just let me know when you’ve reviewed it. Thanks, Brian.”
She hung up before I could respond.
I sat there for a long time, staring at my phone. Then at the empty chair across from me.
Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked. Somewhere down the street, a car door slammed. The house settled into the kind of silence that felt too big, too heavy.
I picked up my coffee mug. The ceramic was cool against my palm, the liquid inside stone cold. I set it back down without drinking.
Something wasn’t right.
