My father, Robert Mercer, was a successful contractor in Connecticut. The kind of man who built things—houses, decks, the occasional garage workshop that became his personal kingdom. He built his identity the same way: carefully, methodically, with the unshakeable belief that his way was the only way that made sense.Sons carry the family forward. That was his axiom. Everything else flowed from that single, absolute truth.
It wasn’t that he was deliberately cruel about it. He was just matter-of-fact, the way people are about gravity or taxation. He had a son—Marcus, six years older than me—and he invested in that future like it was a guaranteed return on investment. Tutoring. His business degree. Connections with every contractor and developer Dad knew. A guaranteed trajectory toward something significant.
