Chapter 8
I ended the Separation Rule that night.
Not ceremonially.
Not through some grand declaration.
I told the senior family:
“No child moves branches because adults manufacture a diagnosis around them.”
Martin objected.
I continued.
“No relative gets automatic influence over where my sons live.”
Another objection.
“And no child is designated heir.”
That silenced everyone.
Even Rafe looked at me.
Good.
Roswell had assumed one of my boys would eventually take command.
Why?
Because they were mine.
That was not qualification.
It was biology.
I had criticized Martin for deciding too early who Caleb should become while quietly allowing the family to imagine both boys belonged to Roswell before they belonged to themselves.
Same disease.
Different dosage.
Martin laughed bitterly.
“Then what happens when you die?”
“Adults will handle it.”
“And your sons?”
“Will be whatever they become.”
He called it irresponsible.
I called it childhood.
Later, Micah asked what “heir” meant because he had heard the word.
I said:
“Someone adults decide should get something later.”
He thought.
“What thing?”
“Sometimes a business.”
“Can I have the swing set?”
Better ambition.
“We’ll negotiate.”
Caleb wanted cookies.
Perfect.
No dynastic crisis.
No branch politics.
May you like
Just sugar.
That was the scale I wanted back.
