Chapter 6
The next morning, Arthur called a press conference.
Every news station in the city showed up, cameras flashing, reporters yelling questions.
We stood side by side at the front of the hotel’s ballroom, the letters, the sheet music, the photo of Arthur and baby Clara spread out on the table behind us.
Arthur spoke first, his voice steady, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“For thirty years, I believed my daughter Clara wanted nothing to do with me,” he said.
“I was lied to.
By my own sister, Marge Hale.
She hid every letter Clara ever sent me.
She forged documents to keep us apart.
She did it to steal my fortune, to keep control of my company, to make sure no one but her benefited from the life I built.”
He held up Marge’s letter, the one admitting she’d hidden the truth.
“This is her own handwriting.
Admitting she sent Clara’s letters back unopened.
Admitting she lied to me for thirty years.
Because of her, I missed my daughter’s entire life.
I missed her first steps, her first day of school, her wedding, the birth of my granddaughter Lila.
Because of her, Clara and Lila suffered.
They lost their home, they struggled to pay for medical care, Lila was left homeless after Clara died.
All because one woman was greedy.”
Then he gestured to me.
“This is Lila.
My granddaughter.
She is not a scammer.
She is not a liar.
She is the bravest person I have ever met.
She walked into my hotel, cold and hungry, and she played the song I wrote for her mother.
She gave me the chance to make amends.
And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to her.
To both of them.”
He stepped back, and I stepped forward.
My hands were shaking.
I’d never spoken in front of so many people.
But I thought of Mom.
I thought of all the times she’d told me to be brave.
I looked out at the crowd of reporters, their cameras flashing, and I spoke.
“I was seven when my mom first told me about my grandpa,” I said.
My voice was wobbly at first, but it got stronger.
“She said he was a good man who’d made a mistake.
She said he’d written her a song, the most beautiful song she’d ever heard.
She taught it to me.
We played it every night, even when we had no heat, even when we had no food.
When she was dying, she made me promise to play it for him one day.
To give him a chance to explain.
I didn’t come here for his money.
I didn’t come here for a fancy house.
I came because my mom loved him.
And I wanted him to know she never hated him.
She forgave him.
And I’m trying to, too.”
I held up the tattered sheet music.
“This is the original copy.
You can have it tested.
The handwriting is his, from thirty years ago.
The letters are real.
The photo is real.
I don’t care what the tabloids say about me.
I just want the truth to be known.
My mom deserved better.
And my grandpa deserves to stop living with a lie.”
The room was quiet for a second.
Then one reporter started clapping.
Then another.
Then the whole room was clapping, loud and warm.
I looked over at Arthur.
He was smiling, tears in his eyes.
He squeezed my hand.
After the press conference, the tide turned.
The tabloids retracted their stories.
People apologized on social media.
The hotel’s reviews went back up, even better than before, people saying they respected Arthur for telling the truth, for standing by his family.
Marge was fired from the hotel, her access revoked, her name removed from every account.
Ms. Lopez filed the lawsuit, adding defamation to the list of charges after Marge’s tabloid lies.
The audit of the hotel’s accounts found more than five million dollars Marge had embezzled over the years, stashed in secret bank accounts.
She was going to lose everything.
That night, we sat in the penthouse, eating takeout pizza, watching the news replay our press conference.
Arthur looked over at me, a small smile on his face.
“You were amazing up there,” he said.
I shrugged, grinning.
“Learned from the best,” I said.
He laughed, a real, loud laugh, the first I’d heard from him.
Then his face got serious.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“About what you said, about using regret to do good.
I want to start a foundation.
In Clara’s name.
To help homeless kids, to pay for medical bills for families who can’t afford it, to fund music programs in schools.
And I want you to run it.
If you want to.
You know what it’s like to be in their shoes.
You’d be perfect.”
I stared at him, shocked.
“Me?” I said.
“I’m seventeen.
I don’t know how to run a foundation.”
“You’ll learn,” he said.
“I’ll help you.
We’ll do it together.
It’s what Clara would have wanted.”
I thought of Mom, of how she’d always helped everyone she could, even when we had nothing.
I thought of the kids still sleeping in alleys, still going hungry, still feeling like no one cared.
I nodded, my throat tight.
“I’d love that,” I said.
Arthur smiled, reaching over and squeezing my hand.
May you like
“Then let’s do it,” he said.
“Together.”
