Here is the only thing I have.
Everybody wants this to be about a man in a good suit putting a cardboard box down on a table and wiping a smile off a groom's face in front of a hundred people.
That version is four sentences long and it is the one I have told at work.
That happened. Exactly as written.
I will have those four seconds for the rest of my life. I have replayed them about four hundred times and I am not sorry about one single one of them.
But there was nothing of Abel's in that box.
Not one page. He did not make anything and he did not find anything that was not already mine.
It was all mine.
Every page in those four files is my handwriting. I wrote it, at my own kitchen table, on Sunday nights, for eleven years, while being told by everybody including myself that I was not involved in that business.
