But enough.
It was the first time we had shared a laugh in more than a decade.
Then I remembered the foundation documents.
“There’s something else.”
“I know.”
“You know about the medical fund?”
“Yes.”
“You tried to block Grandpa from transferring it to me?”
Dad was quiet.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He stood and walked toward the shelves.
Here it was.
The place where a conversation could still fail.
“Because I believed bringing you into the foundation would reopen everything.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to someone who spent ten years telling himself the separation was your decision.”
I stared at him.
He continued before I could respond.
“If you returned to foundation leadership, I would have to explain why you had been removed.”
“To the board?”
“To everyone.”
Including himself.
He didn’t say it.
He didn’t need to.
“What about the document saying I voluntarily withdrew?”
“I gave the board that representation.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
I let the word settle.
He did not soften it.
That mattered too.
“Why?”
“Because I was furious.”
He looked at me.
“You accepted the scholarship after I told you not to. You left. I told myself you had rejected everything the family represented.”
“I rejected your decision for me.”
“I understand that now.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His voice didn’t rise.
“I wish understanding arrived on schedule. It usually doesn’t.”
I looked at the folder.
“So what happens now?”
“With the foundation?”
