Chapter 15
Arthur’s eighty-third birthday was small.
His choice.
Twenty people.
No thirty-person lawn spectacle.
No phones raised.
No grand entrance.
He wore the same scarf from the previous year.
I teased him.
He said:
“It survived your family.”
Fair.
Luca brought the cake.
Camille did not come.
She sent nothing.
Arthur approved.
“No gift is sometimes the most respectful gift.”
We sat outside.
My father’s wheelchair beside one of the benches made from the old Founder’s Chair.
At one point he asked Luca to sit.
My son hesitated.
“On that?”
Arthur rolled his eyes.
“It’s wood, not a throne.”
Luca sat.
Nothing happened.
No captains saluted.
No Rourke restoration.
No transfer of power.
Just grandson beside grandfather.
Arthur looked at him.
“You wanted this wood very badly.”
Luca laughed.
“I was stupid.”
“Yes.”
“Grandfather.”
“Yes?”
“Did you ever want me to take over?”
Arthur thought carefully.
“I wanted you to become someone capable of taking responsibility.”
Not the same.
Luca understood now.
“And if that never means leading?”
Arthur shrugged.
“Then I wasted less of your life.”
I looked away because my eyes had filled.
My father spent years building an organization where sons were expected to become versions of fathers.
At eighty-three, he finally admitted repetition was not legacy.
Luca touched the bench.
“What do you want your legacy to be?”
Arthur pointed toward me.
“She’s already ruining it.”
I laughed.
Then he smiled.
May you like
“Good.”
That was the answer.
