Uncle Richard had been the owner of my grandfather’s penthouse for less than thirty seconds when the attorney quietly announced that the man who actually owned the building was already sitting in the room.
Chapter 3
That answer angered Richard more than if I had bragged.
“You think you’re better than us.”
“No.”
“You think because you played chess with Dad every Sunday, you deserved millions.”
“That isn’t what happened.”
“Then explain it.”
For the first time that afternoon, I stopped trying to protect his feelings.
“Grandpa asked me to evaluate my first lease when I was twenty-three. I got it wrong. He made me redo it four times. At twenty-four, I spent six weekends studying building codes because he said nobody should own apartments without understanding what makes them safe.”
Richard stared at me.
“At twenty-five, I spent Christmas Eve helping relocate a family after an electrical fire. At twenty-six, I negotiated a roofing contract while working forty-five hours a week at the bank. For three years, I’ve taken calls in the middle of the night when elevators failed, furnaces died, pipes froze, and tenants needed help.”
My voice remained calm.
“I didn’t do those things because I expected Grandpa to give me anything. I did them because he taught me, and because eventually I discovered I loved the work.”
Melissa spoke hesitantly.
“Do you really own Riverside?”
“Yes.”
Her face changed.
“Then you own my apartment.”
“Unit 14C.”
Her mouth fell open.
“You know my unit?”
“I know every unit.”
“But I send requests to Morrison Property Management.”
“That’s the operating name.”
“You approve them?”
“Usually.”
Michael suddenly straightened.
“Wait. My office is in Morrison Towers.”
“Eighth floor.”
“I renovated the conference room last winter.”
“I approved your plans.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I thought Dad did.”
“No.”
Patricia looked genuinely bewildered.
“How did none of us know?”
My mother answered.
“Because none of you asked Jennifer what she was doing.”
The words landed harder than anything I had said.
My family knew I had left the bank two years earlier. I told them I was working in real estate management.
Nobody asked for whom.
At Thanksgiving, they asked whether I was dating.
At Christmas, they asked why I still drove a six-year-old Toyota.
At family dinners, they discussed Grandpa’s properties as though they were lottery tickets waiting to be scratched.
Not once did anyone ask me which buildings I managed.
Richard sank into his chair.
“This still isn’t fair.”
Mom looked at her brother.
“Fair?”
“We’re Dad’s children.”
“And Jennifer is his granddaughter.”
“He should have divided the company equally.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what parents do.”
My mother shook her head.
“That’s what entitled children expect.”
Richard glared at her.
She didn’t flinch.
“Dad gave me enough to pay off my mortgage and retire comfortably,” she said. “Patricia got books she has loved since childhood. Michael got the cars he spent forty years begging Dad not to sell. You received investments worth more than most people earn in a decade.”
Then she looked around the table.
“Nobody here was abandoned.”
Richard folded his arms.
“The company should still have stayed with his children.”
Edmund spoke quietly.
“James disagreed.”
That ended the argument, even if Richard could not accept it.
Gradually, relatives began leaving.
Some avoided me.
Some hugged me.
Melissa lingered near the door.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“The thing about the penthouse. I was already imagining living there.”
I smiled faintly.
“At least you admitted it.”
She looked embarrassed.
“Are you going to raise my rent?”
“Your lease comes up in April. We’ll review market conditions like we do for everyone.”
Her eyes widened.
“So you won’t punish me?”
“For saying something silly at a will reading?”
She nodded.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m your landlord, not a dictator.”
She laughed with relief.
Michael approached next.
He was the only one of Grandpa’s children who looked more thoughtful than angry.
“I had no idea you were doing all that.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“That sounds worse when you say it.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
He glanced toward the black screen where Grandpa’s image had vanished.
“Dad used to complain that none of us cared how the company worked.”
“He complained to me too.”
Michael smiled.
“Did he?”
“Constantly.”
“That sounds like him.”
He squeezed my shoulder.
“Take care of it.”
“I will.”
Richard waited until almost everyone had gone.
He stood near the conference-room door with his coat over one arm.
“This isn’t over.”
“I figured.”
“My lawyers are going through everything.”
“They should.”
He seemed surprised.
“You’re not worried?”
“If Grandpa made a mistake, your lawyers should find it.”
“And if you made one?”
“Then they should find that too.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You sound just like him.”
It was meant as an insult.
I took it as a gift.
Richard stepped closer.
“I’m his son, Jennifer.”
“I know.”
“You’re just his granddaughter.”
That hurt more than I expected.
Not because I doubted my place.
Because I finally understood his.
“You were his son,” I said. “And he loved you. I was also his student, his employee, and eventually his business partner. Those things aren’t competitions.”
Richard said nothing.
“Love isn’t a corporate qualification,” I continued. “Grandpa knew the difference.”
He left without answering.
My mother and I remained with the attorneys.
Edmund handed me a small brass key.
“Safe-deposit box.”
I turned it over in my palm.
“What’s inside?”
“James said you would know when you opened it.”
“Of course he did.”
Edmund smiled.
“He enjoyed making people finish the lesson.”
Outside, the rain had stopped.
The sidewalks reflected the evening lights, and the Chicago River looked almost black beneath the bridges.
Mom and I walked toward the parking garage.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I think so.”
“That was ugly.”
“Grandpa warned me.”
Mom stopped.
“There’s something I should tell you.”
I looked at her.
“He told me about the transfer when it happened.”
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
“He made me promise not to tell anyone.”
“Three years, Mom?”
“I nearly told you before today.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because he said this day mattered.”
I waited.
She smiled sadly.
“He wanted everyone to discover the truth at the same time, without having months to pressure you, flatter you, or make you feel guilty.”
That sounded exactly like him.
Then she added, “He also wanted you to see something.”
“What?”
“That he didn’t choose you because you were his favorite.”
I laughed softly.
“Comforting.”
“He chose you because you were competent.”
I looked across the street toward the towers rising into the evening sky.
From Grandpa, there could have been no greater compliment.
