But Jordan spoke first.
“Come in,” he said. “We’ll talk over tea.”
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They sat in our living room for nearly two hours.
Talking. Explaining. Justifying.
Not once did they say, “We’re sorry.”
Not once.
When they finished, Jordan stood up and went into his office.
He returned holding a check.
$20,000.
My mother’s eyes lit up instantly. My father leaned forward, already relaxing.
“You have no idea what this means to us,” she said, reaching for it.
But Jordan pulled it back slightly.
“You can have this,” he said calmly, “but only under one condition.”
Their confidence cracked for the first time.
“What condition?” my father asked.
“It’s simple,” Jordan replied. “I want an apology. For how you’ve treated me over the years.”
My father exhaled sharply, almost laughing.
“That’s it? Of course. I’m sorry, Jordan.”
My mother nodded quickly. “If anything we said hurt you—”
