Chapter 17
Far away in Ohio, Julian stood on the loading dock of a busy distribution warehouse in a heavy denim jacket. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a rough work glove, breathing in the crisp morning air with tired lungs.
His hands were calloused, his back ached from lifting heavy crates, and his expensive designer suits were long gone. Yet, for the first time in his entire life, he felt a strange, quiet sense of authentic human dignity.
He had earned his own paycheck, paid his own rent in a modest apartment, and answered to no one for his survival. He looked up at the American flag flying over the industrial park, feeling a sudden wave of understanding.
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His mother hadn't been cruel when she cut him off; she had performed a necessary surgery to save his soul from rot. He pulled out his phone, typing a short, simple text message to the estate's general legal counsel box.
"Tell her I'm working, I'm sober, and I'm finally sorry for everything," he typed before pressing send.
