I need to tell you something about Derek that he didn’t tell me until much later.
He’d been laid off in January.
The cybersecurity company he worked for in Minneapolis got bought by a bigger company in California. Two hundred people lost their jobs in one Zoom call. Derek was one of them.
He hadn’t told Walt. He was too ashamed.
He had a mortgage on a $640,000 townhouse in Edina. He had $58,000 on credit cards. He had a car payment on that Tesla. His severance had run out in April.
He was drowning.
And he was standing in his dead father’s office holding a coffee can full of money that, in his mind, nobody else was ever going to claim.
I didn’t know any of that then. All I knew was that my nephew’s eyes looked like a man counting chips at a blackjack table.
The next week, Derek called me from Minneapolis.
“Aunt Carol, I talked to a lawyer up here. Guy named Brandon Hale. He does collections.”
I sat down at my kitchen table.
“And?”
“He says a lot of these are probably too old to collect. But some of the more recent ones might still be good. Especially the ones people signed. He says a signed IOU is basically a promissory note.”
“Derek, these are your father’s friends.”
“These are my father’s debtors,” he said. “There’s a difference.”
“Your father never asked one of them for a dime.”
“Well, my father’s not here anymore.” His voice cracked a little when he said it. Then it hardened. “And I am. Brandon’s drafting demand letters. Every name in the can. He says even the ones that are too old to sue on, a lot of people will pay just to make it go away. Especially if they’ve got money now.”
I didn’t argue with him.
I’d watched my brother for seventy-four years. Walt always said, “You can’t talk sense into a man who’s already counting. You’ve got to let him count all the way to the end. Then show him what he missed.”
So instead of arguing, I said, “Derek. Walt’s memorial lunch is the third Saturday in April. At the Legion hall. Everybody in town’s going to be there.”
“So?”
“So bring the can,” I said. “Bring the letters. You can hand them out in person. Save on postage.”
There was a long pause.
“You’re on my side?” he said.
“Bring the can, Derek,” I said.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.