My hands shook.
“You’re telling me—”
“The plane ticket was never your inheritance.”
The room felt smaller.
The sea beyond the windows seemed impossibly bright.
“The plane ticket was your invitation.”
I sat speechless.
Back in Cincinnati, my cousins were celebrating.
Probably spending money already.
Probably posting photographs.
Probably congratulating themselves on winning.
They thought Grandpa left me a trip.
Instead, he left me responsibility.
Something far more valuable.
And far heavier.
The investor sat across from me.
