Twenty-five years ago, before he became governor, before anyone knew his name, I helped him when he had nothing. In return, he promised me one favor if I ever needed it.
I never used it.
Instead, I asked him to do something else.
I asked him to watch over you.
Tears blurred the words.
The ballroom disappeared.
All I could see was my grandfather’s handwriting.
You were always different from the rest of this family. Kinder. Stronger. Better than they deserved.
One day they may judge you by your job, your income, your circumstances, or your mistakes.
When that day comes, remember this: your worth has never depended on their approval.
I swallowed hard.
My mother was crying.
My father looked deeply uncomfortable.
I continued reading.
The governor knows something the rest of the family does not.
I left him copies of documents he was instructed to protect until the right moment.
