They say that grievance comes in waves, but when my grandfather, Richard Ashford, died, I didn’t feel a wave. I felt a hollow, aching silence. It wasn’t the silence of absence, but the silence of the only voice that had ever spoken up for me suddenly going quiet.
Richards Ashford was a man of mahogany desks, the smell of pipe tobacco and old vanilla, and a laugh that could rattle the windows of his study. To the world, he was a tycoon, a formidable force in real estate. To my parents, Diana and Mark, he was a walking ATM, a bank vault they were waiting to crack open.
But to me? He was just Grandpa. The only person who saw me.
I stood at the back of the funeral service, watching the rain streak against the stained glass of the chapel. My parents were in the front row, naturally. Diana was wearing a black dress that cost more than my tuition, dabbing at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. Mark was shaking hands, solemn and dignified, playing the role of the grieving son to perfection.
It was a performance. A masterclass in hypocrisy.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to walk up the aisle and overturn the casket, to tell everyone that the last time they had visited Richard was six months ago, and only then to ask for a loan to cover a bad investment. But I didn’t. I stood in the shadows, just as I had for my entire life.
In the Ashford family hierarchy, I was the ghost. I was the disappointment. I wasn’t aggressive enough for Mark, wasn’t social enough for Diana. I was Ethan—quiet, observing, “soft.”
If only they knew how much strength it takes to stay soft in a house built of stone.
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