Not duty.
Choice.
Grandpa had learned.
Late.
But he had learned.
Brandon was reading his own letter.
His expression became strangely still.
“What?” I asked.
He handed it to me.
Brandon,
You are good at the work.
I worry you have confused being good at something with being obligated to do it forever.
Ask yourself whether the foundation is your calling or merely the place where your father applauds you most reliably.
I slowly lowered the letter.
“Ouch.”
“Grandpa had a talent.”
“For subtlety?”
“For emotional artillery.”
Margaret cleared her throat.
“He asked me to tell both of you that no decision is required immediately.”
“What decision?” Brandon asked.
“Whether either of you wants the positions he envisioned.”
Brandon stared.
“You mean I can leave?”
Margaret looked genuinely puzzled.
“You are an adult, Mr. Whitmore.”
I laughed so suddenly that I had to cover my mouth.
Brandon pointed at me.
“Not helpful.”
But he was smiling.
Then the smile faded.
“I don’t know what I would do.”
“That might be worth finding out,” I said.
He looked at me.
For perhaps the first time in our adult lives, we were not the successful son and rebellious daughter.
We were simply two people nearing forty who had inherited scripts written before we understood ourselves.
Margaret closed the binder.
“There is one additional item.”
Brandon groaned.
“Of course there is.”
“This one is less complicated.”
