At my grandfather’s funeral, my cousins received his yacht, his penthouse, and his company worth 27 million dollars. I received a small, old envelope. Laughter broke out as I opened it. Inside there was only a plane ticket to Rome – INFO DESK

Their parents, Vernon and Beatrice, stood a little apart from everyone else like royalty forced to mingle with civilians. Vernon, my uncle, had his hand resting inches from the leather folder the lawyer carried, fingers flexing every few seconds as if he could pull the money toward him by sheer will. Beatrice’s diamonds caught the overhead lights every time she moved, little explosions of wealth on her wrists and ears.

And then there was me.

The high school history teacher who’d driven three hours down I‑75 from Detroit in a Honda Civic that needed new brakes just to say goodbye to the only person in this family who had ever really seen me.

My black suit was off–the–rack from a Macy’s clearance sale. The lining itched. The shoes pinched. The most expensive thing I had on me was the gas in my tank.

Meanwhile, my grandfather—Roland Whitmore—lay in the ground behind us, the man who had built an empire from nothing. He’d turned one beat–up fishing boat out of a small Michigan harbor into Whitmore Shipping Industries, a company with ships in two oceans and offices in twelve American cities. His name showed up in business pages from New York to Los Angeles.

Everybody in that room had come for their piece of his kingdom.

Everybody except me.

I just wanted one more hour at his old kitchen table, the chessboard between us, the smell of black coffee in the air, his gravelly voice saying, “Your move, Nathan,” like time wasn’t running out.

But time had run out.

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