It was Christmas Eve at my parents’ house in Fairfield, Connecticut—the same colonial-style home where every holiday dinner had felt like a carefully choreographed performance for as long as I could remember. Candles burned softly. The tree glowed in the corner. My mother had taken out the “good” china she reserved for guests and relatives she wanted to impress. My father sat at the head of the table carving ham with slow, practiced precision. My older brother, Grant, was halfway through his second glass of wine and already wearing the smug expression he always got when he sensed an opportunity to mock me.
He was the first to react.
“Your little ‘worthless’ business?” he said, laughing. “For how much?”
I took a sip of water and placed my glass down carefully before answering.
“One hundred seventy million.”
Grant’s laugh cut off so abruptly it was almost amusing. His mouth stayed slightly open, but no sound followed. Across from him, his wife froze with her napkin halfway to her lap. My mother actually went pale—not theatrical pale, but real pale, like the blood had drained from her face all at once. My father stopped carving.
Then everyone started talking at the same time.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Grant said first, far too loudly. “What, in Monopoly money?”
“Grant,” my mother snapped, though her eyes stayed locked on me. “Ethan… what exactly do you mean you sold it?”
