Chapter 16
Leonard became ill eighteen months later.
Age.
Nothing dramatic.
He asked for me.
I went.
Not for reconciliation.
For closure, perhaps.
He looked smaller in the hospital chair.
Still sharp.
“You ended Grayhaven.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll regret it.”
“Maybe.”
He frowned.
“You always were too willing to admit uncertainty.”
I smiled.
“That’s why people can tell me when I’m wrong.”
He did not appreciate that.
Then he asked about Milo.
“Fine.”
“Soft?”
I stared.
“He cries.”
Leonard almost smiled triumphantly.
“He laughs too.”
Silence.
“He trusts me.”
Harder.
“He trusts Ruth.”
Harder still.
“He has friends.”
No answer.
“He goes to school without believing every goodbye is permanent.”
Leonard looked away.
That was the real defeat.
Not me removing him.
A child living normally despite the system he called necessary.
Then he said:
“Your father would have agreed with me when he was younger.”
“I know.”
“And later?”
“He changed.”
Leonard closed his eyes.
That was his deepest grievance.
My father grew.
Leonard experienced growth as betrayal of shared belief.
He whispered:
“We built men who could survive anything.”
I answered:
“And did you ever ask whether they should have had to?”
Silence.
Before I left, Leonard asked:
“Will Milo know who I was?”
“Yes.”
He looked relieved.
Then I added:
“When he’s old enough to ask.”
No myth.
No inheritance.
No elder writing himself into a child’s mind before the child could choose what to think.
May you like
Leonard did not like that.
Good.
