Chapter 17
Five years after the auction gala, Daisy was nine.
We stood in the same ballroom.
Another fundraiser.
Same mahogany stage.
Different podium.
Arthur older.
Still refusing retirement.
Daisy carried no placard.
No paper drawing either.
She had upgraded to a sketchbook.
An auctioneer sold a weekend vacation package.
Daisy whispered:
“Boring.”
Correct.
Then came a children’s art fundraiser.
One drawing showed a crooked family holding hands beneath a purple sun.
Daisy looked at me.
“Bad perspective.”
Apparently she had opinions now.
The auctioneer announced a starting bid.
Daisy raised her paddle.
I looked at her.
“How much?”
“Twenty.”
Reasonable.
Someone bid thirty.
She glared.
“Forty.”
I almost laughed.
Arthur leaned toward me.
“Sir, perhaps establish a limit.”
Good man.
Daisy won at eighty dollars.
She carried the drawing herself afterward.
At the bottom, a child had written a name.
No price.
No ranking.
Just authorship.
I watched Daisy study it.
Five years earlier she stood on this stage while adults laughed and a woman I loved tried to teach her that belonging could be assigned a dollar value.
Lucille was wrong.
So was I in a different way.
I believed being Maximilien Pierce’s daughter automatically protected Daisy.
It did not.
Names do not protect children.
Adults paying attention do.
Daisy looked up.
“Daddy.”
“Yes?”
“This kid draws hands weird.”
“They’re difficult.”
“You draw worse.”
True.
She tucked the picture under one arm.
Then walked off the stage without looking back.
No one bid on her.
No one decided where she belonged.
No one moved her to make room for a future wife or hypothetical child.
The ballroom saw exactly what she was.
Not an heir.
Not a charity lot.
Not evidence of my power.
May you like
Just Daisy.
And by then, that was the most valuable thing I knew how to protect.
