Chapter 6
My father requested dinner.
I almost refused.
Then accepted.
Private dining room.
Two chairs.
No servants.
He hated that.
“Where’s everyone?”
“Not being used as scenery.”
He glared.
Good.
We ate badly.
Then Benedict asked:
“Do you think I’m cruel?”
“Yes.”
He paused.
Not expecting simplicity.
I continued.
“Not always. Not entirely. But yes.”
He looked down at his plate.
“You benefited from the structure I built.”
True.
“I did.”
“You inherited loyal captains.”
True.
“I did.”
“You inherited fear.”
Also true.
I put down my fork.
“And I’ve spent eight years deciding which parts deserve to survive.”
That angered him.
To Benedict, inheritance meant preservation.
To me, it meant responsibility.
Different religion.
Then he told me something I did not know.
His own father used the House Purse on him.
Benedict was fourteen.
Not as servant.
As son.
At dinners, guests could pay to make young Benedict perform tasks.
Recite business numbers.
Stand for hours.
Drink foul mixtures.
Carry coats.
Nothing he called abuse.
Everything designed to remove pride.
“My father said a man who cannot survive humiliation cannot command respect.”
There it was.
The wound beneath the doctrine.
Benedict had not invented the ritual.
He had survived it.
Then repeated it on people with even less power.
“Did you hate him?”
My father stared.
“Yes.”
“Then why preserve his lesson?”
He had no answer.
For the first time since the engagement, I saw confusion instead of defiance.
Good.
May you like
Pain explains repetition.
It does not excuse it.
