There it was. Less than ten minutes after learning of my success, and he was already positioning himself as my financial advisor. The audacity was almost impressive.
I spooned ice cream into Emma’s bowl with deliberate precision. “Manage what, exactly, Kyle?”
“Well, you know… investments, tax planning… making sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”
By unscrupulous people like you? I thought. I’d noticed his eyes had lit up when the reporter mentioned the $750,000 valuation. I could practically see him calculating his share of my theoretical inheritance.
“I appreciate the concern,” I said, my voice as cool as the ice cream. “But I have excellent financial advisors. Have had them for two years now.”
Two years. I let that sink in. Two years during which they’d joked about my computer time and suggested I take up bird-watching. Two years while I was building an empire and they were building assumptions about my limitations. This was not the end of a painful conversation. It was just the beginning.
Chapter 2: The Art of the Apology
The apology tour began three days after Christmas. They must have held a strategy session, because each call felt like a calculated military maneuver. The first was from Brena, a dawn raid at 8:30 AM.
“Mom, I’ve been thinking,” she began, the words sounding rehearsed. “We handled your news badly. Kyle feels terrible, and I… I realize I’ve been treating you like you’re helpless instead of recognizing how capable you are.”
“Have you now?” I said, opening an email from my accountant about quarterly tax payments. Being wealthy, it turns out, involves a surprising amount of paperwork.
