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

Every birthday card came with a crisp twenty–dollar bill and the same note in his sharp, slanted handwriting:

Make it worth more.

No “Love, Granddad.” No smiley faces. Just a challenge disguised as a gift.

Every Christmas, where other kids were unwrapping game consoles and sneakers, I was sitting on shag carpet holding books titled things like “Principles of Corporate Finance” and “Logistics and You.” One year I got a certificate for an online course in basic accounting. I was twelve.

If I’d been anyone else’s grandson, it might’ve been funny.

The only time he ever seemed genuinely interested in me was during our Sunday chess games.

It started when I was ten.

I’d just won my school’s tiny little chess tournament—eight kids in the library with plastic pieces and a folding table. I came home with a certificate printed on cheap paper and a pizza coupon.

The next Sunday, there was a knock on our apartment door.

When Mom opened it, my grandfather walked in like he had no idea how small the place was compared to his world. He took off his coat, set a wooden chessboard on our wobbly kitchen table, and said, “Show me what you’ve got.”

I lost in twelve moves.

He came back the next Sunday.

And the next.

It didn’t matter if there was a blizzard outside or if his driver had to creep through Detroit snow in a car worth more than our entire building. Every Sunday, 10 a.m., he was there.

Those games became the only constant between us.

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