At my grandfather’s funeral, I opened the crumpled envelope while my cousins were still laughing. They received his beautiful island off the coast of Oregon, his collection of vintage yachts, and his $46 million mansion, but I only received one plane ticket to Saint-Tropez. In fact, my cousin Tyler threw up in laughter and clutched his stomach as if he had just heard the best joke ever.
A man in a well-tailored suit would speak seven words to me 36 hours later as I stood in the Saint-Tropez airport, altering my perception of my grandfather and the reasons he had always kept me at a distance.
As Grandfather Walter would have desired, the funeral had been a theatrical affair. Like the Beatles, black limos paraded around his estate’s private drive in Massachusetts. Walter Camden was a titan of real estate who had constructed half of Chicago’s opulent skyscrapers, and everyone who was anyone in Los Angeles society came to pay their respects.
Greeting guests as though he had already inherited the throne, my cousin Tyler stood at the entryway. His handmade Brioni outfit was likely more expensive than my monthly teaching income. He had plenty of stuff to last a hurricane on his blond hair.
Senator Grayson. “I appreciate you coming,” Tyler remarked, precisely pumping the man’s hand. The honor would have been given to Grandfather.
There was Madison, his sister, live-streaming her sadness to her million followers while wearing a fancy black dress that was more expensive than my car. She whispered to her phone’s camera, “This is just so hard,” as a single tear trickled down her flawlessly sculpted cheek. “Grandfather was everything to me.” She grinned as she stopped the stream and looked at the number of likes she had received.
Then I was Ethan, standing by the coat check wearing my three-year-old off-the-rack suit. Since Monday was my students’ test, I had to grade papers that evening as the chemistry teacher. The family afterthought who found out about his passing by a group text was me, the grandchild who had received precisely six phone calls from his grandfather in his 29 years of existence.
I was discovered lurking at the kitchen entry by my mother, Elaine. She was one of Grandfather’s three children and the one who had sinned by marrying for love rather than money. Are you alright, my love? She asked, using the same soft hands that had packed my school lunches for sixteen years to adjust my tie.
“I’m all right, Mom.” I am so ready for this to end.
My dad, Frank, showed up next to her with two cups of coffee from the kitchen as he knew we couldn’t both eat the champagne. I could still make out the slight wood polish stain beneath his fingernails from the cabinet set he had been making, even though his carpenter’s hands were thoroughly cleaned. He said, “They’re going to read the will.” We can depart immediately after if you’d like.
At that time, however, I was unaware that the will reading would be the start rather than the finish. The smell of leather and old cigars filled the study where they had gathered us, just as it did at every unpleasant family meal I had been forced to attend. Sitting behind the enormous oak desk, appearing like a lottery-winning undertaker, was Mr. Dalton, grandfather’s attorney. His helper had already spread out a number of large manila envelopes, each bearing a name written in Grandfather’s exact handwriting.
With his financial advisor on the phone, Tyler sat down in the leather chair nearest the desk. He said, “Yes, I’ll need you to get ready for a big portfolio adjustment,” loud enough for everyone to hear. “At least nine figures are involved.”
Reapplying lipstick while her aide filmed everything “for documentation purposes,” Madison said as she sat on the antique sofa. “This family history is so significant,” she added to no one in particular.
As Tyler’s mother, my aunt Marianne, sat perfectly upright in her chair, the light from the crystal chandelier caught her pearl necklace. She had spent the last forty years of her marriage to the family acting as though she had been born a Camden. God forbid the market move for five minutes without my Uncle Leonard, Madison’s father, who stood at the window monitoring stock movements.
Our small family was then gathered close to the door, as if we were about to bolt. As he always did when she was anxious, I saw Dad stroke his thumb across her knuckles while Mom gripped his hand. His throat was cleaned by Mr. Dalton.
Shall we start? »
Tyler smirked as he turned to face me. “Hey Ethan, I hope Grandpa left you something, maybe one of his old chemistry textbooks.” Madison chuckled behind her manicured palm as he laughed at his own joke.
Grandfather probably didn’t even know what I taught him because he had never owned a chemical textbook in his life, but I refrained from saying so. The Camden family had taught me long ago that it was safer to be silent than to confront them. With Tyler’s name shining in gold letters, Mr. Dalton opened the first packet, and I noticed my cousin leaning forward like a wolf spotting prey.
In precisely 48 hours, I would be standing in a villa with a view of the Mediterranean, discovering that all we believed to be true about Walter Camden was actually only half the truth. It was precisely the half worth $46 million that he wanted us to see. The value of the other half was incalculable in terms of money. Under a rumpled envelope and a plane ticket that his other grandchildren believed to be a joke, he had concealed it.
That day, when I left the estate, they were still laughing. Knowing the reality, they wouldn’t be laughing.
As a child, I was the Camden family’s black sheep. My name is Ethan. My cousins Tyler and Madison spent their summers learning to sail and going to charity galas on Grandfather Walter’s yacht, but I was the child who received Christmas cards that contained only a clean $100 bill. There was a generic holiday greeting with his printed signature beneath it, but no personal letter or invitation to visit.
I used to stash those $100 dollars in a shoebox beneath my bed in the hopes that they would eventually build up to something significant. They never did.
My mother, Elaine Camden Hayes, was the greatest letdown and youngest daughter of my grandfather. Despite being accepted to Harvard Law School, she decided to follow her heart and married my father, Frank Hayes, the summer after graduating. While the men from Camden developed empires through handshakes and phone calls, Dad was a carpenter who used his hands to create handmade furniture.
A family tale states that Grandfather’s toast at their wedding sounded more like a eulogy. He raised his champagne glass and said, “To Elaine, may she find happiness in the simple life she’s chosen.” The message was clear: she was dead to him, at least the version of her he had envisaged.
A world removed from the Camden estate in Massachusetts was our Bronx home. From the hand-carved banister on the staircase to the whisper-closing kitchen cupboards, Dad had meticulously restored every inch of it himself. The music of scales and arpeggios filled my youth while Mom offered piano lessons in our living room.
We had pancakes on Saturday mornings and pizza evenings on Fridays. One January, the furnace broke, so we all slept in sleeping bags by the fireplace and told ghost stories. When I wouldn’t have the newest sneakers or the newest video game console when I got home from school, Mom would add, “We’re rich in ways that matter.” “Your grandpa has wealth; we have one another.”
Even yet, it always hurt when Tyler would come home from his Cape Cod summers, tanned and brimming with tales of traveling to Rome for a weekend or sailing to Block Island because Grandfather insisted on real croissants. He had the assurance that came from believing that the world was made for someone like him, yet he was two years older than me. He had the build of a quarterback.
He would give me a firm back pat and say, “Hey, Ethan,” during family get-togethers. Are children still being taught their ABCs? »
“I instruct high school students in chemistry,” I would correct him for the hundredth time.
Baking soda volcanoes and other things is correct. Cute.
Madison, in her own way, was even worse. She had become an influencer and was a year older than me. She shared every detail of her wonderful life with her fans. She would bring a camera crew to family dinners, transforming Grandmother’s funeral into a photo shoot. As tears dropped in time, she remarked, “Grief is just another part of my journey I want to share with my community.” She was standing exactly right in the light.
The division was particularly noticeable during Grandfather’s yearly Christmas party. Tyler would examine market trends and purchase potential in the study alongside Grandfather and the other men. Madison would be flaunting her most recent sponsorship deals and wearing jewelry that cost more than Dad’s annual salary, while I would be in the kitchen with Mom and Dad, assisting the caterers and listening to Dad joke around with the wait staff.
When I was sixteen years old, I plucked up the bravery to participate in the study with the males. After reading about chemical engineering, I reasoned that my grandfather might be curious to learn about advancements in petroleum processing. They were all smoking cigars and sipping scotch, which probably cost more per bottle than our monthly mortgage, when I knocked on the thick wooden door and went inside.
Grandfather’s gray eyes, as icy as winter steel, had stated, “Ethan.” “This is a private conversation.”
As an adolescent, I had cracked my voice as I remarked, “I thought maybe I could listen and learn.”
Tyler chuckled. What do you learn? What do you do with money you’ll never have? »
“That’s enough, Tyler,” murmured Grandfather, although it seemed like he agreed. “Ethan, locate your mom.” She definitely needs assistance with something.
Dad was in the garage admiring Grandfather’s collection of vintage automobiles when I departed, my face burning with embarrassment. Putting his arm around my shoulders, dad had added, “Don’t let them get to you, son.” “When it counts, men who think in terms of dollars typically fall short.”
Twelve years had passed since then, and nothing had changed. At a public high school in Oakland, I started teaching chemistry, and I spent my days attempting to persuade adolescents that knowing about electron orbitals would be important in some way. I enjoyed my first job, even if it was less than Tyler’s monthly gym membership fee. When a struggling student finally grasped a topic, I adored the way their eyes brightened as if they had found fire.
Grandfather’s 86th birthday celebration, six months prior to his passing, was the last time I saw him alive. I said “Happy Birthday” to him, but he ignored me and went straight on to talk about Tyler’s recent promotion at Barton Pierce. That evening, I made the decision to stop trying. He had already decided who was important in this household, and it wasn’t me.
I realized that nothing had changed, not even death, as I stood in his study for the reading of his will. When it came to sterling silver and stock portfolios, the hierarchy was unchangeable. I was only there because I had to be.
The will reading took place right after the funeral. The sky was still dismal and heavy, fitting the mood as we filed back into Grandfather’s study, even though the October rain had stopped. As carefully as a surgeon getting ready to operate, Mr. Dalton, the estate lawyer, organized his paperwork. After thirty-two years as Grandfather’s lawyer, his countenance was a picture of professional detachment as he got ready to transfer a fortune that could feed a small nation.
Before we start, Mr. Dalton stated, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles, “I should point out that Mr. Camden was quite explicit about what he wanted.” Two weeks before to his death, all the details were discussed and decided.
For two weeks. Despite knowing he was dying, he didn’t bother to phone me. Not that I had any different expectations.
Since he was a little child, Tyler had a propensity of cracking his knuckles when he was thrilled. “Dalton, let’s move this show along.” Some of us had to catch planes. He had previously stated three times that he was heading to Singapore tomorrow for a significant business that he couldn’t afford to miss.
The first envelope, which had Tyler’s name embossed in gold, was opened by Mr. Dalton. In the corporate sector, my grandson Tyler Alexander Camden has demonstrated the passion and ambition required to uphold the Camden legacy. I leave my real estate assets in Chicago, which include sixteen other commercial properties with a total estimated value of $27 million, the Harbor Gardens complex on the Gold Coast, and the Camden Tower on Michigan Avenue.
Tyler gave a fist pump as if he had just scored a touchdown. “Yes!” I was aware of that! I was certain that he could spot ability when he saw it.
Furthermore, Mr. Dalton added, “I leave him my collection of vintage cars, which includes the 1962 Ferrari 275 GTB, the 1955 Mercedes-Benz 190 SL, and ten other vehicles kept at the estate in Massachusetts.”
The Ferrari! Tyler yelled almost aloud. By itself, that is worth nine million! Grandfather, you gorgeous jerk! Aunt Marianne gave him a sour look, but she was also grinning.
Mr. Dalton proceeded to the following envelope after clearing his throat. To my granddaughter Madison Rose Camden, whose social impact has given our family name a contemporary spin. I leave my Cape Cod properties, which include my private island, Harbor Key, off the coast of Oregon; the main estate on Bay Crest, which is worth fourteen million dollars; and the beach home on Ocean Drive, which is worth seven million dollars.
I thought the crystal chandelier may break when Madison let out such a loud screech. “Oh God, the Harbor Key!” Are you aware of the meaning of this? I can organize private parties and influencer retreats. Everything will alter as a result of this! It’s likely that she was already writing the announcement post for her followers on her phone.
Additionally, Mr. Dalton added, “she will be the recipient of my fleet of yachts, which includes the Camden Star, the Harbor Dream, and the Midnight Crown.”
Four boats! Madison gave a start. “Four! Not even I can. “This is beyond.” Her aide was now recording her response, maybe for a video about emotional change to thankfulness. Uncle Leonard lovingly gave her a shoulder pat. “Your grandfather was aware that you would make good use of them, dear.”
My mom moved next to me, her hand touching mine. The tightness in her fingers was palpable to me. Dad remained motionless, his jaw clenched in the manner that suggested he was keeping something from being said.
Mom straightened a little as Mr. Dalton read, “To my daughter, Elaine.” “I hope she will discover some wisdom in my first-edition book collection and the $120,000 I left her, which I could never teach her.”
$120,000. Until you contrasted it with the millions of dollars flying about the room, it seemed like a lot. Although the books were likely valuable, the message was obvious. This was the result of her decision to follow it. “Thank you, Father,” Mom whispered softly, more graciously than he merited.
Mr. Dalton remarked, “And finally,” as he produced a little, rumpled envelope that appeared to have been saved from a trash can. In honor of my grandson, Ethan.
The room became quiet. Madison even ceased typing.
To Ethan James Hayes, my grandson. Mr. Dalton gave me the envelope and said, “I leave… this.” As if someone had rolled it up and then attempted to smooth it out, it was truly crushed. Grandfather’s handwriting bore my name, but it appeared hurried, almost as an afterthought.
My fingers were trembling as I opened it. Inside was a single aircraft ticket. First class, connecting to Saint-Tropez via LAX to Marseille, France. The flight was scheduled for 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. On a ripped piece of paper, there was also a scribbled message that read, “First class.” Avoid missing the flight.
That was it. Before Tyler burst out laughing, the room was silent for around three seconds. Are you joking with me now? An airline ticket? A single aircraft ticket! In fact, he grabbed his stomach and fell out of his chair. “My goodness, this is amazing.” Ethan was given a holiday. Just one journey.
Before I could intervene, Madison snatched the envelope out of my hands. “Give me a look.” My God, it’s true! It’s not even an open-ended ticket; it’s a real plane ticket. Tomorrow is the precise date. She started laughing. “It’s first class, at least.” Grandfather lavished money for the one and only inheritance of his favorite grandson.
“Perhaps it’s a test,” Tyler remarked as he wiped away his tears. Like you get nothing if you don’t go. However, you also receive nothing if you go. Simply a pleasant picture of Saint-Tropez
“There’s probably a hotel reservation,” Madison continued. One evening in a mediocre establishment. “Oh, Ethan, please take pictures for us peasants who own only property worth millions of dollars.”
My face was burning. The fact that I couldn’t argue made every phrase feel even more like a slap. This was precisely what it appeared to be: a final dismissal, a means of removing me from the country while the estate was being distributed, preventing me from even contesting anything if I so desired.
The hilarity was interrupted by Aunt Marianne’s voice. “Well, Father had his reasons all the time. Maybe he’s telling Ethan to widen his views and observe how affluent people live before going back to his meager teaching job.
“That’s enough,” stated my father in a dangerously low voice. He hardly ever used that tone, but when he did, everyone paid attention. You’ve enjoyed yourself. We understand. The son of the investment banker deserves better than the son of the carpenter. I have received the message.
“Oh,” Uncle Leonard remarked, “don’t be so sensitive, Frank.” “That isn’t personal.”
«Father merely saw that some individuals are designed for empires and others are built for, well, smaller things,» Dad shot back. Like passing on knowledge to the next generation. For example, constructing houses with real workmanship rather than glass towers that will be demolished in thirty years.
I didn’t hear any of the conflicts that erupted in the room at that time. I gazed at the ticket that I was holding. Tomorrow, St. Tropez. There is absolutely no logic, context, or explanation. The only instructions are to “don’t miss the flight” and the destination.
I turned the ticket over in my hands as I sat in my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house that evening. Since high school, not much had changed in the room. My old textbooks were arranged on the shelf above my desk, and my poster of the periodic table was still hanging on the wall. The window looked out onto the backyard, where Dad had constructed a weathered but still intact treehouse for me when I was seven years old. Everything in this place had history, permanency, and significance. In my hands, the ticket seemed like a disruption, a malfunction in the normal matrix of my life.
As he had done since I was a child, my father knocked and went inside without waiting for a response. Two bottles of beer, already opened, were in his possession. He gave me one and sat on the edge of my bed, saying, “I thought you could use this.” His weight caused the mattress to groan, a sound I recognized that simultaneously made me feel twenty-nine and twelve.
He took a long sip and replied, “You don’t have to go.” Throughout his life, your grandfather engaged in games with people, testing, manipulating, and moving them around like chess pieces. Don’t allow him to pull tricks on you from the afterlife.
However, what if it has some significance? As I peeled down the label on my beer bottle, I asked. What if it’s not just that? »
What happens if there isn’t? Dad retorted. «What if it’s simply one final power play, making you dance to his tune even after he’s gone? On Monday morning, your children are depending on you. Son, you’ve got a fantastic life here.
Mom came in the doorway with a cup of tea before I could reply. She had changed from her funeral gown into the cozy pajamas I had purchased for her three Christmases prior, the ones with the tiny musical notes on them. «I think you should go,» she replied calmly, stunning both of us.
Dad objected, saying, “Elaine, the man just humiliated our son in front of the entire family.”
“No,” she responded as she moved to sit across from me. He took our son away from the others. That’s not the same. She lightly touched the ticket as if it were going to melt. Despite his numerous traits—cold, cunning, and control-obsessed—your grandfather was never frivolous. Never. Even if we couldn’t see it, he had a purpose behind every gesture.
Now you’re standing up for him? Dad’s voice lifted a little. “After everything? »
Mom gave a headshake. I’m not standing up for him. I’m trying to comprehend him. I have something to tell you both, Frank. Ten days before he died, he called me.»
Both of us turned to look at her. It had been years since Grandfather had visited our home.
“He had a different voice,” she added. Despite being exhausted, he felt more present than he had in decades. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Ethan,” he continued. He is not like the others. When I asked him what he meant, he simply replied, “He’ll know when it’s time.” “He has something they don’t.”
“What kept you from telling me?” I inquired.
Because I believed it to be nothing more than the digressions of a dying man attempting to reconcile with his conscience. But now, with this ticket, I wonder if there was more to it.»
Dad got up and paced toward the window. This is absurd. Due to Walter Camden’s decision to play one final cryptic game, we are seriously considering sending Ethan on a wild goose chase.
“One day,” Mom remarked quietly. “Just one flight.” At least Ethan will know if it doesn’t work out. He will not be left wondering for the rest of his life.
I took another look at the ticket. On the paper, the flight number appeared to pulse. “On Monday, my students have an exam.”
Mom said, “I’ll proctor it,” right now. “I can watch them take a test because I still remember enough chemistry.”
“This is crazy,” Dad whispered. However, I could detect the defeat in his tone. He knew, like I did, that when Mom made up her mind about something, it was decided.
“What if it’s harmful? He made one final attempt.
“It’s Saint-Tropez, not Mogadishu,” Mom said, grinning slightly. “The worst scenario is that Ethan returns home with a story and a lovely view of the Mediterranean.”
With gray eyes as icy as winter steel, Grandfather had said, “Ethan.” “This is a confidential conversation.”
With my voice shaking like the teenager I was, I had answered, “I thought maybe I could listen and learn.”
Tyler had chuckled. “What do you learn? How do you spend funds that you will never have? »
Grandfather had replied, “That’s enough, Tyler,” but it seemed like he agreed. “Go find your mother, Ethan.” She must be in need of assistance with anything.
After leaving with a humiliated expression on my face, I discovered Dad in the garage admiring Grandfather’s vintage automobile collection. He threw his arm around my shoulders and said, “Don’t let them get to you, son.” “Men who think in terms of money typically fail when it counts.”
Nothing had changed in the twelve years since then. I started teaching chemistry at a public high school in Oakland, where I spent my days attempting to persuade adolescents that knowing about electron orbitals would be important in some way. I loved my job, even if my starting pay was less than Tyler’s monthly gym membership. I adored seeing a struggling student’s eyes light up like they had found fire when they finally grasped a concept.
I had last seen Grandfather alive during his 86th birthday celebration, six months before to his passing. When I wished him a happy birthday, he ignored me and started talking about Tyler’s most recent promotion at Barton Pierce. I decided to give it up that evening. He had decided who was important in this household, and I wasn’t that person.
As I stood in his study for the reading of his will, I came to the realization that death had not altered anything. The hierarchy was fixed, or more accurately, fixed in stock portfolios and sterling silver. My only reason for being there was obligation.
The reading of the will took place right after the funeral. As we went back into Grandfather’s study, the sky remained gloomy and heavy, reflecting the mood of the October rain that had stopped. The estate lawyer, Mr. Dalton, organized his files as carefully as a surgeon getting ready to operate. His countenance was a picture of professional detachment as he prepared to disburse a fortune that might feed a small country. He had been Grandfather’s lawyer for thirty-two years.
“I should mention that Mr. Camden was quite explicit about his desires before we start,” Mr. Dalton stated, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles. Two weeks before to his death, every detail was discussed and decided.
Two weeks. when he didn’t bother to call me even though he knew he was dying. I wasn’t expecting any different.
Tyler had a propensity of cracking his knuckles when he was thrilled, dating back to his early years. “Dalton, let’s get this show on the road.” He had previously stated three times that he was flying to Singapore tomorrow for a big deal he couldn’t miss, but some of us have planes to catch.
Tyler’s name was embossed in gold on the first envelope, which Mr. Dalton opened. To Tyler Alexander Camden, my grandson, who has demonstrated the passion and ambition required to uphold the Camden name in the business sector. I leave behind my real estate assets in Chicago, which include the Harbor Gardens complex on the Gold Coast, the Camden Tower on Michigan Avenue, and sixteen other commercial properties with a total estimated worth of $27 million.
Like he had just scored a touchdown, Tyler pumped his fist. Indeed! I was aware of it! I was aware that he was able to spot talent.
“In addition,” Mr. Dalton went on, “I leave him my collection of vintage cars, which includes the 1955 Mercedes-Benz 190 SL, the 1962 Ferrari 275 GTB, and ten other cars kept at the estate in Massachusetts.”
“The Ferrari! Tyler essentially yelled. That alone is worth nine million! You gorgeous bastard, grandpa! Although she was grinning, Aunt Marianne gave him a disapproving glance.
After clearing his throat, Mr. Dalton proceeded to the subsequent envelope. To Madison Rose Camden, my granddaughter, whose social impact has given our family name a contemporary spin. I leave behind my properties on Cape Cod, which include my private island, Harbor Key, off the coast of Oregon, the beach home on Ocean Drive, which is worth seven million dollars, and the main estate on Bay Crest, which is worth fourteen million dollars.
Madison’s squeal was so loud that I was afraid the crystal chandelier would break. Harbor Key, oh my god! What does this mean, do you know? I am able to organize exclusive events and influencer retreats. Everything is going to change because of this! She was likely composing the announcement post for her followers while typing on her phone.
She will also get my collection of yachts, which includes the Camden Star, the Harbor Dream, and the Midnight Crown, Mr. Dalton added.
“Four yachts! Madison let out a gasp. «Four! Even I can’t. This is beyond. Her aide was now recording her response, maybe for a video about transforming from grief to thankfulness. Uncle Leonard gave her a proud shoulder pat. “My dear, your grandfather knew you would use them well.”
My mother moved next to me and touched me. Her fingers were tense, and I could feel it. Dad’s jaw was set in a way that suggested he was holding back his remarks, and he stood still.
Mr. Dalton read, “To my daughter, Elaine,” and Mom straightened a little. “I leave her my collection of first-edition books and $120,000, hoping she will learn something from them that I could never teach her.”
A hundred twenty thousand bucks. Before you compared it to the millions flying about the room, it seemed like a lot. The message was obvious, but the books were probably worth something. This was the result of the route she had chosen. With more kindness than he merited, Mom murmured softly, “Thank you, Father.”
“And lastly,” Mr. Dalton remarked, removing a little, rumpled envelope that appeared to have been saved from a trash can. “To Ethan, my grandson.”
There was silence in the room. Madison even ceased typing.
To Ethan James Hayes, my grandson. Mr. Dalton gave me the envelope and said, “I leave… this.” As if someone had rolled it up and then attempted to smooth it out, it was truly crushed. Grandfather’s handwriting bore my name, but it appeared hurried, almost as an afterthought.
My fingers were trembling as I opened it. One aircraft ticket was inside. First class, connecting to Saint-Tropez via LAX to Marseille, France. The flight was scheduled for 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. On a ripped piece of paper, there was also a scribbled message that read, “First class.” Avoid missing the flight.
That was it. Before Tyler burst out laughing, the room was silent for around three seconds. Are you joking with me now? An airline ticket? A single aircraft ticket! In fact, he grabbed his stomach and fell out of his chair. “My goodness, this is amazing.” Ethan was given a holiday. Just one journey.
Before I could intervene, Madison snatched the envelope out of my hands. “Give me a look.” My God, it’s true! It’s not even an open-ended ticket; it’s a real plane ticket. Tomorrow is the precise date. She started laughing. “It’s first class, at least.” Grandfather lavished money for the one and only inheritance of his favorite grandson.
“Perhaps it’s a test,” Tyler remarked as he wiped away his tears. Like you get nothing if you don’t go. However, you also receive nothing if you go. Simply a pleasant picture of Saint-Tropez
“There’s probably a hotel reservation,” Madison continued. One evening in a mediocre establishment. “Oh, Ethan, please take pictures for us peasants who own only property worth millions of dollars.”
My face was burning. The fact that I couldn’t argue made every phrase feel even more like a slap. This was precisely what it appeared to be: a final dismissal, a means of removing me from the country while the estate was being distributed, preventing me from even contesting anything if I so desired.
The hilarity was interrupted by Aunt Marianne’s voice. “Well, Father had his reasons all the time. Maybe he’s telling Ethan to widen his views and observe how affluent people live before going back to his meager teaching job.
“That’s enough,” stated my father in a dangerously low voice. He hardly ever used that tone, but when he did, everyone paid attention. You’ve enjoyed yourselves. We understand. The son of the investment banker deserves better than the son of the carpenter. I have received the message.
“Oh,” Uncle Leonard remarked, “don’t be so sensitive, Frank.” “That isn’t personal.”
Dad retorted, “Father just realized that some people are made for empires and others are made for, well, simpler things.” Like passing on knowledge to the next generation. For example, constructing houses with real workmanship rather than glass towers that will be demolished in thirty years.
I didn’t hear any of the conflicts that erupted in the room at that time. I gazed at the ticket that I was holding. Tomorrow, St. Tropez. There is absolutely no logic, context, or explanation. The only instructions are to “don’t miss the flight” and the destination.
I turned the ticket over in my hands as I sat in my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house that evening. Since high school, not much had changed in the room. My old textbooks were arranged on the shelf above my desk, and my poster of the periodic table was still hanging on the wall. The window looked out onto the backyard, where Dad had constructed a weathered but still intact treehouse for me when I was seven years old. Everything in this place had history, permanency, and significance. In my hands, the ticket seemed like a disruption, a malfunction in the normal matrix of my life.
As he had done since I was a child, my father knocked and went inside without waiting for a response. Two bottles of beer, already opened, were in his possession. He gave me one and sat on the edge of my bed, saying, “I thought you could use this.” His weight caused the mattress to groan, a sound I recognized that simultaneously made me feel twenty-nine and twelve.
He took a long sip and replied, “You don’t have to go.” Throughout his life, your grandfather engaged in games with people, testing, manipulating, and moving them around like chess pieces. Don’t allow him to pull tricks on you from the afterlife.
However, what if it has some significance? As I peeled down the label on my beer bottle, I asked. What if it’s not just that? »
What happens if there isn’t? Dad retorted. Even after he’s gone, what if it’s only one last power move that keeps you dancing to his music? On Monday morning, your children are depending on you. Son, you’ve got a fantastic life here.
Mom came in the doorway with a cup of tea before I could reply. She had changed from her funeral gown into the cozy pajamas I had purchased for her three Christmases prior, the ones with the tiny musical notes on them. To our surprise, she responded softly, “I think you should go.”
Dad objected, saying, “Elaine, the man just humiliated our son in front of the entire family.”
“No,” she responded as she moved to sit across from me. He took our son away from the others. That’s not the same. She lightly touched the ticket as if it were going to melt. Despite his numerous traits—cold, cunning, and control-obsessed—your grandfather was never frivolous. Never. Even if we couldn’t see it, he had a purpose behind every gesture.
Now you’re standing up for him? Dad’s voice lifted a little. “After everything? »
Mom gave a headshake. I’m not standing up for him. I’m attempting to comprehend him. I have something to tell you both, Frank. He called me ten days before to his death.
Both of us turned to look at her. It had been years since Grandfather had visited our home.
“He had a different voice,” she added. Despite being exhausted, he felt more present than he had in decades. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Ethan,” he continued. He is not like the others. When I asked him what he meant, he simply replied, “He’ll know when it’s time.” “He has something they don’t.”
“What kept you from telling me?” I inquired.
Because I believed it to be nothing more than the digressions of a dying man attempting to reconcile with his conscience. However, now that I have this ticket, I question whether there was more to it.
Dad got up and paced toward the window. This is absurd. Due to Walter Camden’s decision to play one final cryptic game, we are seriously considering sending Ethan on a wild goose chase.
“One day,” Mom remarked quietly. “Just one flight.” At least Ethan will know if it doesn’t work out. He will not be left wondering for the rest of his life.
I took another look at the ticket. On the paper, the flight number appeared to pulse. “On Monday, my students have an exam.”
Mom said, “I’ll proctor it,” right now. “I can watch them take a test because I still remember enough chemistry.”
“This is crazy,” Dad whispered. However, I could detect the defeat in his tone. Like me, he was aware that Mom’s decisions were final once she made them.
“What if it’s harmful? He made one final attempt.
“It’s Saint-Tropez, not Mogadishu,” Mom said, grinning slightly. “The worst scenario is that Ethan returns home with a story and a lovely view of the Mediterranean.”
Victor gave me the foundation documents, and I held them while I stood on the villa’s patio and watched the sun set over the Mediterranean. Compared to the crumpled envelope that had brought me here, their weight felt different. These documents have a genuine purpose and responsibility that I never would have thought conceivable.
Tyler texted me again, and this time it said, “I hope you’re enjoying your little vacation.” Avoid going to the casinos with all of your teacher’s pay. Grandfather’s wine collection is already being divided up because you aren’t present to claim your portion. You didn’t receive a share, I see now.
The irony almost made me laugh. I was in charge of half a billion bottles of wine that they had no idea existed, while they were squabbling over bottles that might have been worth $60,000.
Victor, setting down two glasses of what must have been ridiculously expensive wine, joined me on the patio. When your grandfather made his choice forty-five years ago, he was standing right here. He informed me that this was his escape from the realization that his American life had turned into a prison he had created for himself.
“To protect this, he kept me at a distance,” I said, my realization finally sweeping over me like a Mediterranean wind.
“No,” Victor clarified in a soft yet forceful voice. In order to prevent you from becoming like them, he kept you apart. “Ethan has his mother’s heart and his father’s hands,” he once told me. He instructs kids and constructs stuff. Let him believe he has been forgotten. He will become stronger as a result. Character is shaped by hunger. It is destroyed by comfort.
I reflected about my Oakland pupils, particularly those who stayed after school because they had nowhere else to go. Maria, who was unable to pay for SAT preparation but aspired to become a doctor. James’s parents were unable to pay for college applications despite working three jobs. Despite having exceptional chemistry skills, Destiny believed she was not intelligent enough to attend college because no one in her family had ever done it.
“I’ll do it,” I responded, feeling as though I was finally breathing after years of holding my air. But only if I continue to teach. I manage the foundation and work on initiatives here during the summers and breaks, but I won’t leave my students behind. To be honest, I need them, and they need me. They help me stay grounded.
The first genuine, affectionate smile I had ever seen from Victor. That’s exactly what your grandfather said you would say. He even put it in writing. He produced another document. On the paper was the legible handwriting of Grandfather: “Ethan will want to keep teaching.” Permit him. The world will be changed by a teacher who turns into a philanthropist. It will be saved by a philanthropist who continues to teach.
Over the next two days, we went over everything. The scope of the foundation was astounding. Girls in Laos were learning to read for the first time in their family’s history at these schools. Children with cleft palates might receive free surgery from Ethiopian hospitals. In Ecuador, water filtration systems have reduced newborn mortality by 65%. Grandfather’s meticulous notes, meticulous attention to detail, and desperate endeavor to balance the scales of his life were all present in every undertaking.
Victor told me this last morning: “He started this after your mother married your father.” When he witnessed her put love before money, he realized that he had always had things backwards. However, Tyler had already been shaped in his likeness by that point, and Madison was doing the same. His only chance to do it correctly was with you.
It was a different flight home. I had changed since leaving LAX four days prior.
Tyler couldn’t help but inquire about my “cute little trip” during a Sunday family supper.
“It was enlightening,” I replied plainly while I was eating a salad and he boasted about his brand-new Ferrari.
Was there anything that Grandpa left for you there? A good watch, perhaps? Maybe a timeshare? Madison was happy with everything, so she giggled while live-streaming our family supper.
My mother smiled knowingly across the table as I said, “Just perspective.” As I sat down, my father squeezed my shoulder, and I knew he understood, too. The shift in me, not the specifics. I smiled more easily, spoke more calmly, and sat up taller. I hadn’t changed because of the money. That was the goal.
My school inexplicably got funds for a new after-school program eight months later. Modern laboratory apparatuses emerged during spring break. Suddenly, an anonymous benefactor paid for the exam fees for every student who wished to enroll in AP Chemistry. Maria received a full scholarship to medical school from a previously unknown foundation. Inexplicably, James’s college application costs were not charged. A mentor helped Destiny recognize that she was intelligent enough to attend Caltech.
I had a small inheritance, but my cousins never asked why I seemed happy. They were too preoccupied with squabbling over property taxes on their inherited riches and sharing selfies from their yachts. Tyler was already increasing his grandfather’s empire by using his properties as leverage for additional purchases. At a cost of $12,000 per weekend for “authentic experiences,” Madison has transformed Harbor Key into a private influencer retreat.
In the meantime, 14 additional schools were covertly constructed in Bhutan by the Romano Foundation. In Uganda, we provided funding for a ground-breaking malaria treatment initiative. In Bolivia, we gave 55,000 people access to safe water. Every project was wholly anonymous, painstakingly recorded, and maintained with care.
At school, I stored the rumpled envelope in my desk drawer next to student photos. I would occasionally pull it out and examine it, recalling the embarrassment of that will reading. My cousins became smaller, more avaricious, and more hungry once they got exactly what they wanted. I received just what I needed, and it expanded my horizons beyond my wildest expectations.
Grandfather wrote one last message on the last page of his journal. They got what they could see, Ethan. They could never comprehend what you had. I was successful because of the apparent fortune. My legacy is you. In a generation, the money I earned will be squandered and lost. The lives you transform will have a lasting impact.
He was correct. Too prideful to acknowledge that he is not the genius he believed himself to be, Tyler has already lost three million dollars in poor investments. Madison is spending her fortune on luxury clothing and private planes, and every purchase she makes leaves a hole that needs to be filled with something larger.
However, a Laotian girl who studied reading at one of our institutions was recently accepted to a university today. A Ghanaian teenager who underwent heart surgery at our facility recently completed his first marathon. In three years, no child has died from a waterborne disease in a Chilean village that had access to clean water.
There are some secrets that are worth keeping. There are certain legacies worth living. Additionally, the smallest present—a rumpled envelope with a plane ticket—can occasionally be more valuable than all the world’s apparent wealth. My grandfather offered me the opportunity to make a difference, something my cousins will never have. And the only inheritance that really matters is that one.
