My name is Jonathan Clark. At thirty-two, I believed trust was the bedrock of any meaningful relationship. I was a senior project manager at a Chicago software firm, pulling a solid six-figure salary that afforded me a comfortable life in a Lincoln Park condo.
It was the American dream, polished to a perfect shine. I was about to marry Meghan Davis, the woman I thought was my soulmate, and my relationship with my father, Robert Clark, was everything a son could want. He was my hero, my mentor, the man who taught me that integrity was worth more than any paycheck.
My father, sixty years old, was a respected real estate broker, his reputation built over three decades. He and my mother, Mary, had been married for thirty-five years, their bond the gold standard against which I measured all others. When I introduced him to Meghan two years ago, he welcomed her like the daughter he never had.
Meghan, thirty, was a sharp, beautiful marketing coordinator. We met at a Fourth of July barbecue, and within three months, I knew I wanted to spend my life with her. She fit into my family seamlessly.
…The story doesn’t end here, it continues on the next page 👇
