Half.
I stared at the oak desk, at the sealed folder, at the faint indent where Glenn’s hand rested.
Then I heard Grandpa’s voice in my head, as clearly as if he’d spoken it into my ear.
Six months earlier, in his study, he’d called me in late one evening. The lamps cast warm light over the bookshelves, turning the room gold and quiet. He had looked tired, but his gaze was sharp.
“Ethan,” he’d said, “you need to listen. When I’m gone, they’re going to come after what I leave you.”
I’d frowned, uncomfortable. “Why would they do that?”
He had let out a humorless chuckle. “Because they think entitlement is love. And because you’ve spent your life making it easy for them.”
I’d opened my mouth, but he’d lifted a hand, stopping me gently.
“You’re going to want to give in,” he’d continued. “You’ll want peace. You’ll want to avoid conflict. That’s who you are. You’re kind.”
The word had softened his voice.
Then his expression had hardened again, not against me, but against the world.
“But kindness without boundaries isn’t kindness,” he’d said. “It’s self-destruction. Promise me you won’t let them make you small again.”
I had swallowed. “I promise.”
He’d reached across his desk and taken my hand with surprising strength. “You have a spine of steel, boy,” he’d said. “You just haven’t had to use it yet.”
Back in Glenn’s office, I lifted my eyes.
The trembling in my hands slowed, then stopped, replaced by something steadier, something unfamiliar.
Steel.
I looked at Glenn. “No,” I said.
My voice didn’t shake.
“No settlement. They don’t get a single dollar.”
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