His terrible jokes.
His love of baseball.
His habit of labeling everything in the refrigerator.
One evening, Mom found an old recording of Dad teaching me Japanese when I was six.
I laughed so hard that tears ran down my cheeks.
In the video, Dad pointed at a picture of a cat.
I answered correctly.
Then he asked me another question.
I responded by sticking out my tongue.
He burst into laughter.
Mom smiled through tears.
"He adored you."
I looked at the screen.
For years, thinking about Dad had made me feel only grief.
Now the memories were becoming warm again.
The investigation still mattered.
Justice still mattered.
But I was beginning to understand that honoring Dad didn't require spending every waking moment fighting Kenji.
I could also honor him by living.
By laughing.
By building something good.
Several weeks later, Rachel called with major news.
Authorities had announced formal proceedings involving alleged financial misconduct connected to Takahashi Global and certain executives.
Kenji was among those facing scrutiny.
The announcement was public.
News outlets began examining the company's financial history.
Reporters contacted Rachel.
Some wanted interviews.
Others wanted photographs of my father.
I felt overwhelmed.
Rachel advised me to be careful.
Then one reporter asked whether I could provide the original restaurant recording.
I refused.
The evidence was being handled through the appropriate channels.
I wasn't going to turn Dad's story into entertainment.
But I did agree to give a carefully prepared statement.
I wanted people to know why the case mattered.
Not because a billionaire had insulted a waitress.
That was only the beginning.
It mattered because ordinary people could be harmed when powerful institutions hid information.
It mattered because people like my father could lose everything after raising legitimate concerns.
And it mattered because silence allowed wrongdoing to continue.
With Rachel's help, I prepared a statement.
I explained that my family had spent fifteen years seeking clarity about my father's professional reputation.
I asked people not to prejudge the legal proceedings.
And I expressed hope that the evidence would finally receive a fair review.
The response was overwhelming.
Former colleagues of Dad contacted us.
Some apologized for believing the accusations.
Others shared memories of his integrity.
One retired analyst sent a letter describing how Dad had helped her during her first year at the company.
Another said he had refused to approve transactions he didn't understand.
I read every message.
Mom cried beside me.
For the first time, the world was remembering my father as more than a man accused of misconduct.
He was a mentor.
A colleague.
A husband.
A father.
A person.
Then Rachel received an unexpected call.
Kenji's attorneys wanted to discuss a possible resolution of the historical claims.
They proposed a private meeting.
I stared at Rachel.
"Why now?"
She looked serious.
"Because the evidence is becoming difficult for them to ignore."
Then she added something that made my heart race.
"They're offering a public correction of your father's employment record."
For fifteen years, that was what Mom had wanted.
For fifteen years, Dad's name had carried the weight of accusations he couldn't answer.
Now the company was offering to correct the record.
But there was a condition.
They wanted my family to agree not to discuss certain historical matters publicly.
Then I slowly shook my head.
Chapter 9
I refused the first offer.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Not because I enjoyed watching Kenji's company struggle.
But because the agreement would have required my family to remain silent about issues that were still under investigation.
I couldn't accept that.
Neither could Mom.
Rachel explained our position to the company's attorneys.
We were willing to discuss an accurate correction of Dad's employment record.
We were willing to review compensation for documented harms.
But we would not sign a statement contradicting what we knew or interfere with lawful investigations.
For the first time, I felt completely certain of my decision.
Fifteen years earlier, Kenji had offered Dad money in exchange for silence.
Dad refused.
Now the same choice stood before me.
And I understood why he had said no.
A few weeks later, the company returned with a revised proposal.
This time, the terms were different.
The correction would not require us to make false statements.
The company acknowledged that my father's dismissal had relied on allegations that were not substantiated by the independent review.
The proposed resolution included changes to his employment record and a public statement recognizing his role in raising financial concerns.
Rachel reviewed every word.
So did I.
Mom sat beside us.
When she read the draft, her hands began shaking.
"Hiroshi deserved this while he was alive."
"He spent his final years trying to prove he wasn't a thief."