Chapter 17
Four years after the pavilion incident, we held another children’s party in the same garden.
Caleb was seven.
Micah ten.
Older now.
Still close.
Still occasionally trying to kill each other over video games.
Normal.
A tiger piñata hung from the center beam.
Micah held the bat first.
No blindfold.
He swung.
Missed.
Caleb laughed.
“Little boss can’t even hit it.”
I froze.
Same insult.
Different speaker.
Then Micah tackled him into the grass.
Both laughing.
I almost intervened.
Stopped.
Context matters.
They rolled apart.
No fear.
No adult directing anything.
No one filming evidence.
No one deciding which brother belonged elsewhere.
Eventually Caleb took the bat.
He looked at Micah.
“Move.”
Micah stepped dramatically ten feet away.
“Safe?”
“Farther.”
They both laughed.
Caleb swung.
The piñata burst.
Candy scattered.
Children screamed.
I stood beside Rafe watching them dive for sugar like civilized heirs to absolutely nothing.
Good.
Micah came running with two pieces.
He handed one to Caleb without thinking.
That tiny gesture hit me harder than any family council ever had.
Martin spent years believing brothers required distance to prevent rivalry.
Brielle tried to manufacture resentment because closeness threatened the family arrangement she wanted.
I nearly allowed Roswell tradition to treat my sons as future positions instead of present children.
They taught me something simpler.
Closeness does not guarantee peace.
Distance does not guarantee safety.
What matters is whether adults keep turning ordinary conflict into destiny.
Caleb shouted:
“Dad!”
“What?”
“Micah took my candy!”
Micah shouted:
“He gave it to me!”
“Liar!”
I sighed.
Rafe smiled.
“Succession crisis?”
I looked at him.
“Apparently.”
Then I walked toward my sons.
No council.
No separation rule.
No branch deciding what their argument meant.
May you like
Just two brothers fighting over candy beneath an empty place where a padded post used to stand.
That was enough.
