Chapter 15
Silas died when Peter was nine.
Natural causes.
No reconciliation.
No final confession.
He left boxes of family history.
Photographs.
Letters.
Old meeting notes.
Some valuable.
Some self-serving.
I kept them.
Not because Silas was right.
Because history deserves sources.
Peter asked:
“Was Silas bad?”
I paused.
“He did something very bad.”
“Was he always bad?”
“No.”
Harder.
“He helped your grandfather when he was young.”
“He helped people?”
“Yes.”
“Then why bad thing?”
Because people are not single sentences.
I told him:
“He started believing the family needed his choices more than other people needed their own.”
Peter frowned.
“That dumb.”
Simplistic.
Useful.
“Sometimes.”
We attended the funeral.
Peter chose to come.
Gwendolyn stood nearby.
Miles beside her.
No one scripted Peter.
No one told him to cry.
He did not.
He looked bored halfway through.
Perfect.
Afterward he asked:
“Can we go?”
“Yes.”
Gwendolyn heard.
She almost laughed.
At the funeral for the man who once planned mine, my son left early because funerals are long.
May you like
Life refusing symbolism again.
I appreciated it.
