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Frank Jr.

I’ve always loved the part at the end of the movie where you get a glimpse of where everyone ends up after the curtain falls. I didn’t know Mom and Victor’s story the way I do now—probably more than I ever wanted to. But I do know what came after.

Mom flourished, designing couture dresses for Ameline Studio—finally bringing her girlhood dream to life.

Victor threw himself into Dallas’s real estate scene, investing in up-and-coming areas like Highland Park.

His eye for lucrative opportunities paid off handsomely, and he made out extremely well.

And he stayed true to his word and kept every bit of his business clean and aboveboard.

Despite their success, they both longed for the familiarity of home—for the palm trees and ocean breezes of Southern California. So, after a few short years, we packed up and returned to Los Angeles, where they planned to spend the rest of their lives. And so they did.

In their empty-nest years, Mom and Victor turned house-flipping into a shared passion.

What started as a casual interest quickly became an obsession.

They traveled the world, Victor documenting every destination with his camera.

Their home became a living gallery—framed snapshots of their adventures, photos of us boys, and, of course, entire walls devoted to Mom. You could hardly see the wallpaper.

They were happily married for fifty-four—almost fifty-five—years until Victor’s death at age ninety. Even then, Mom spoke of him as if he were simply on another trip—gone, but never truly absent. She survived him by six years, passing at eighty-six.

Aunt Edith never let go of her wild, flapper, Jazz Age youth.

She and Mom remained close, their bond all the stronger for knowing the truth of their kinship.

Mom always saw Edith as her big sister, confidante, and best friend—truth be damned.

Edith never remarried, always preferring the freedom of the single life.

“Men are like buses,” she’d say. “There’ll be another one along in ten minutes.

” She lived to the impressive age of ninety-six and was wild right to the very end.

Lawrence—or “Uncle Larry,” as I knew him, even though we weren’t related—remained Victor’s closest friend.

Bonded in wartime and true friends for life, they were as close as brothers.

Lawrence was a constant presence at our family dinners, offering his dry wit and sage advice.

He died in 1968 of lung cancer, which the doctors said was likely a sequelae of gas exposure from the war.

I don’t recall ever meeting Victor’s ex-wife, Dorothy. But I know she was true to her word and kept Victor’s daughter, Margaret, from him. When Margaret came of age, Victor tried to develop a relationship with her, but it never got off the ground. He regretted it for the rest of his life.

My father married his wife, Giselle, before the ink was dry on the divorce from my mother.

She was a force to be reckoned with and ran their household like a dictator.

And though my father wasn’t henpecked per se, it was crystal clear that Giselle wore the pants in that family.

She had him at her beck and call, but as far as I could tell, they were happy enough.

Growing up, I spent time with my father—obligatory family functions, birthdays, and the like—but our relationship was always strained.

Things got better later in life, but not as much as I’d have liked.

He never quite knew how to talk to me, or perhaps he didn’t want to.

I understand why he resented my mother, but I felt his resentment trickled down to me as well.

I’d ask him why, but he died just before Mom did. So I suppose I’ll never understand.

Victor was my dad—in every way that mattered.

And as for me?

After college, life and love led me back to Texas—Houston, this time. I met my wife, Donna, on a blind date gone sideways, and a year later, we ran off to the courthouse and made it official. By all logic, we should have been doomed from the start.

But if there was one thing I ever learned from Mom and Victor, it’s that love chooses you. It rarely makes sense, and I’m not sure it should.

Donna and I are coming up on our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, and she is everything to me.

Our daughter, Savannah, is my pride and joy, as cliché as that sounds.

Even as a child, she was wildly imaginative, and as soon as she could write, she was penning stories.

At seven, she wrote her first “book”—a story about two elephants caring for their friends in need.

I still have it. She graduated from Rice University with a Master’s in Fine Arts a few years back and is now a thriving author. I couldn’t be prouder.

When I look at her, I see Mom’s creativity, passion, and dazzle.

That’s why I know she’ll understand Mom’s story better than anyone else could.

That’s why the cache of Victor’s love letters is safe in her hands.

She’s got a far better way with words than I ever will, so I know she’ll do justice to the tremendous love story that ultimately made us all who we are today.

Will she write it?

I believe she will. She’s one of us, after all.

And when she does, I hope you’ll read it.

Because some stories are worth getting lost in.

And this story is far from over…