Chapter 17
Five years after Peter sat beside a funeral wreath holding my photograph, he turned ten.
The birthday took place on the estate lawn.
No mourning flowers.
No speeches about heirs.
No special chair.
Just family.
Cake.
Too much food.
Miles attended.
Gwendolyn too.
Both by invitation.
Not entitlement.
Peter opened gifts while I stood nearby pretending not to interfere.
One box contained a framed photograph.
Us.
Father and son.
Peter looked at it.
Then at Gwendolyn.
She had given it.
My body tightened slightly.
She noticed.
Then Peter smiled.
“This one’s better.”
Gwendolyn’s eyes filled.
“Why?”
“Dad’s alive in it.”
Children remain ruthless.
She laughed through tears.
Good.
Later, Peter found me near the garden wall.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“Do I have to be boss?”
There it was.
Not from me.
Not recently.
Maybe school.
Maybe Miles.
Maybe history.
“No.”
He stared.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“What if I want?”
“When you’re older, we talk.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t.”
He looked relieved.
That relief told me how heavy a surname can become even when adults try to keep it light.
Then he asked:
“What do you want me to be?”
I thought about Silas.
Gwendolyn.
Miles.
The funeral card.
The wreath.
Every adult who had tried to turn Peter into evidence for a future he could not understand.
I answered:
“Someone who knows when a choice is actually his.”
He frowned.
“That’s not a job.”
“No.”
“Can I be dinosaur scientist?”
“Probably.”
“Can boss do dinosaurs?”
“Terrible conflict of interest.”
He laughed.
Then ran back toward the party.
Gwendolyn stood beside Miles beneath the trees.
No one bowed to them.
No one rejected them.
They were simply family members living with what they had done.
The photograph Peter received sat on the gift table.
No funeral ribbon.
No rehearsal.
No child being told how grief should look.
Five years earlier, my aunt tried to prepare my son for my death because Silas believed controlling the story after I was gone mattered more than the child who would have to survive it.
That night taught me something power never had.
People who plan your funeral are not always the ones who hate you.
Sometimes they are the ones who love the structure they imagine will remain after you.
That can be more dangerous.
Peter shouted from across the lawn.
“Dad!”
I looked.
He held two pieces of cake.
“Which one?”
I pointed left.
He gave me the smaller one anyway.
Criminal.
I walked toward him.
Alive.
May you like
Still here.
And nobody had written tomorrow for him yet.
