«Ethan,» Grandfather had said, his gray eyes as cold as winter steel. «This is a private discussion.»
«I thought maybe I could listen and learn,» I’d said, my voice cracking like the teenager I was.
Tyler had laughed. «Learn what? How to spend money you’ll never have?»
«That’s enough, Tyler,» Grandfather had said, but his tone suggested he agreed. «Ethan, go find your mother. I’m sure she needs help with something.»
I’d left, my face burning with humiliation, and found Dad in the garage looking at Grandfather’s collection of classic cars. «Don’t let them get to you, son,» he’d said, putting his arm around my shoulders. «Men who measure everything in dollars usually come up short where it counts.»
That was twelve years ago, and nothing had changed since then. I became a chemistry teacher at a public high school in Oakland, spending my days trying to convince teenagers that understanding electron orbitals would somehow matter in their lives. My starting salary was less than what Tyler spent on his monthly gym membership, but I loved it. I loved the moment when a struggling student finally understood a concept, the way their eyes lit up like they’d discovered fire.
The last time I’d seen Grandfather alive was six months before his death at his 86th birthday party. He looked right through me when I wished him a happy birthday, turning immediately to discuss Tyler’s latest promotion at Barton Pierce. That night, I decided I was done trying. He’d made his choice about who mattered in this family, and it wasn’t me.
Now, standing in his study for the will reading, I realized nothing had changed, even in death. The pecking order was set in stone—or rather, set in sterling silver and stock portfolios. I was there out of obligation, nothing more.
The will reading happened immediately after the burial. The October rain had stopped, but the sky remained gray and heavy, matching the mood as we filed back into Grandfather’s study. Mr. Dalton, the estate lawyer, arranged his papers with the precision of a surgeon preparing for an operation. He’d been Grandfather’s attorney for thirty-two years, and his face showed nothing but professional detachment as he prepared to redistribute a fortune that could feed a small country.
«Before we begin,» Mr. Dalton said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, «I should note that Mr. Camden was very specific about his wishes. Every detail was deliberated and finalized two weeks before his passing.»
Two weeks. When he knew he was dying but hadn’t bothered to call me. Not that I expected anything different.
Tyler cracked his knuckles, a habit he’d had since childhood when he was excited. «Let’s get this show on the road, Dalton. Some of us have flights to catch.» He’d already mentioned three times that he was flying to Singapore tomorrow for a major deal he couldn’t miss.
Mr. Dalton opened the first envelope with Tyler’s name embossed in gold. «To my grandson, Tyler Alexander Camden, who has shown the ambition and drive necessary to maintain the Camden legacy in the business world. I leave my real estate holdings in Chicago, including the Camden Tower on Michigan Avenue, the Harbor Gardens complex in the Gold Coast, and sixteen additional commercial properties with a combined estimated value of twenty-seven million dollars.»
Tyler pumped his fist like he’d just scored a touchdown. «Yes! I knew it! I knew he recognized talent when he saw it.»
«Additionally,» Mr. Dalton continued, «I leave him my collection of classic automobiles, including the 1962 Ferrari 275 GTB, the 1955 Mercedes-Benz 190 SL, and ten other vehicles housed at the Massachusetts estate.»
«The Ferrari!» Tyler practically shouted. «That’s worth nine million alone! Grandfather, you beautiful bastard!» Aunt Marianne shot him a disapproving look, but she was smiling too.
Mr. Dalton cleared his throat and moved to the next envelope. «To my granddaughter, Madison Rose Camden, whose social influence has brought a modern touch to our family name. I leave my properties in Cape Cod, including the main estate on Bay Crest, valued at fourteen million dollars; the beach house on Ocean Drive, valued at seven million dollars; and my private island, Harbor Key, located off the coast of Oregon.»
Madison squealed so loudly I thought the crystal chandelier might shatter. «Oh my God, Harbor Key! Do you know what this means? I can host influencer retreats, exclusive events. This is going to change everything!» She was already typing on her phone, probably drafting the announcement post for her followers.
«Furthermore,» Mr. Dalton continued, «she shall receive my fleet of yachts, including the Camden Star, the Harbor Dream, and the Midnight Crown.»
«Four yachts!» Madison gasped. «Four! I can’t even. This is beyond.» Her assistant was now filming her reaction, no doubt for some grief-to-gratitude transformation video. Uncle Leonard patted her shoulder proudly. «Your grandfather knew you’d put them to good use, sweetheart.»
My mother shifted beside me, her hand finding mine. I could feel the tension in her fingers. Dad stood perfectly still, his jaw set in that way that meant he was holding back words.
«To my daughter, Elaine,» Mr. Dalton read, and Mom straightened slightly. «I leave the sum of $120,000 and my collection of first-edition books, with the hope that she will find some wisdom in their pages that I could never impart.»
One hundred and twenty thousand dollars. It sounded like a lot until you compared it to the millions flying around the room. The books were probably worth something, but the message was clear. She’d chosen her path, and this was her consequence. «Thank you, Father,» Mom said quietly, with more grace than he deserved.
«And finally,» Mr. Dalton said, pulling out a small, crumpled envelope that looked like it had been rescued from a trash bin. «To my grandson, Ethan.»
The room fell silent. Even Madison stopped typing.
«To my grandson, Ethan James Hayes. I leave… this.» Mr. Dalton handed me the envelope. It was literally crumpled, like someone had balled it up and then tried to smooth it out. My name was written on it in Grandfather’s handwriting, but it looked rushed, almost like an afterthought.
I opened it with shaking fingers. Inside was a single plane ticket. First class, LAX to Marseille, France, with a connection to Saint-Tropez. The flight was for tomorrow morning, 8:00 a.m. There was also a handwritten note on a torn piece of paper: «First class. Don’t miss the flight.»
That was it. The silence in the room lasted about three seconds before Tyler exploded with laughter. «Are you kidding me right now? A plane ticket? One plane ticket!» He actually fell off his chair, holding his stomach. «Oh my God, this is incredible. Ethan got a vacation. One single trip.»
Madison grabbed the envelope from my hands before I could stop her. «Let me see this. Oh my God, it’s real! It’s an actual plane ticket, not even an open-ended one. It has a specific date: tomorrow.» She burst into giggles. «At least it’s first class. Grandfather splurged for his favorite grandson’s one and only inheritance.»
«Maybe it’s a test,» Tyler said, wiping tears from his eyes. «Like if you don’t go, you get nothing. But if you do go, you also get nothing. Just a nice view of Saint-Tropez.»
«I bet there’s a hotel reservation,» Madison added. «A single night at some mediocre place. Oh, Ethan, take pictures for us peasants who only got millions of dollars in property.»
My face burned. Every word felt like a slap, made worse by the fact that I couldn’t argue. This was exactly what it looked like: a final dismissal, a way to get me out of the country during the estate distribution so I couldn’t even contest anything if I wanted to.
Aunt Marianne’s voice cut through the laughter. «Well, Father always did have his reasons. Perhaps this is his way of telling Ethan to broaden his horizons, to see how the successful live before returning to his little teaching job.»
«That’s enough,» my father said, his voice dangerously quiet. It was the tone he used rarely, but when he did, everyone listened. «You’ve had your fun. We get it. The carpenter’s son doesn’t deserve what the investment banker’s son does. Message received.»
«Oh, don’t be so sensitive, Frank,» Uncle Leonard said. «It’s not personal.»
«Father simply recognized that some people are built for empires and others are built for, well, simpler things,» Dad shot back. «Like teaching the next generation. Like building homes with actual craftsmanship instead of glass towers that’ll be torn down in thirty years.»
The room erupted in arguments then, but I didn’t hear any of it. I stared at the ticket in my hands. Saint-Tropez, tomorrow. No explanation, no context, no logic to it at all. Just a destination and a command: «Don’t miss the flight.»
That night, I sat in my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house, turning the ticket over in my hands. The room hadn’t changed much since high school. My periodic table poster still hung on the wall, and my old textbooks lined the shelf above my desk. The window overlooked the backyard where Dad had built me a treehouse when I was seven, now weathered but still standing. Everything here had permanence, history, meaning. The ticket in my hands felt like an interruption, a glitch in the matrix of my ordinary life.
My father knocked and entered without waiting for an answer, the way he’d done since I was a kid. He was carrying two bottles of beer, already opened. «Thought you could use this,» he said, handing me one and sitting on the edge of my bed. The mattress creaked under his weight, a familiar sound that somehow made me feel both twelve and twenty-nine at the same time.
«You don’t have to go,» he said after taking a long sip. «Your grandfather played games with people his entire life—moving them around like chess pieces, testing them, manipulating them. Don’t let him play with you from beyond the grave.»
«But what if it means something?» I asked, peeling at the label on my beer bottle. «What if there’s more to it?»
«What if there isn’t?» Dad countered. «What if it’s just one final power play, making you dance to his tune even after he’s gone? You’ve got kids counting on you Monday morning. You’ve got a life here, son, a good one.»
Before I could respond, Mom appeared in the doorway holding a cup of tea. She’d changed out of her funeral dress into her comfortable pajamas, the ones with little musical notes on them that I’d bought her three Christmases ago. «I think you should go,» she said quietly, surprising both of us.
«Elaine, the man just humiliated our son in front of the entire family,» Dad protested.
«No,» she said, coming to sit on my other side. «He separated our son from the others. That’s different.» She touched the ticket gently, like it might dissolve. «Your grandfather was many things—cold, calculating, obsessive about control—but he was never frivolous. Never. Every move he made had a purpose, even if we couldn’t see it.»
«You’re defending him now?» Dad’s voice rose slightly. «After everything?»
Mom shook her head. «I’m not defending him. I’m trying to understand him. Frank, I need to tell you both something. Ten days before he died, he called me.»
We both turned to stare at her. Grandfather hadn’t called our house in years.
«He sounded different,» she continued. «Tired, but also somehow more present than he’d been in decades. He said, ‘I’ve been watching Ethan. He’s different from the others. He has something they don’t.’ When I asked what he meant, he just said, ‘He’ll know when it’s time.'»
«Why didn’t you tell me?» I asked.
«Because I thought it was just the ramblings of a dying man trying to make peace with his conscience. But now, with this ticket, I wonder if there was more to it.»
Dad stood up, pacing to the window. «This is crazy. We’re seriously discussing sending Ethan on some wild goose chase because Walter Camden decided to play one last cryptic game.»
«It’s one day,» Mom said softly. «One flight. If nothing comes of it, at least Ethan will know. He won’t spend the rest of his life wondering.»
I looked at the ticket again. The flight number seemed to pulse on the paper. «My students have a test on Monday.»
«I’ll proctor it,» Mom said immediately. «I still remember enough chemistry to watch them take a test.»
«This is insane,» Dad muttered. But I heard the defeat in his voice. He knew, like I did, that when Mom made up her mind about something, it was decided.
«What if it’s dangerous?» he tried one last time.
«It’s Saint-Tropez, not Mogadishu,» Mom replied with a small smile. «The worst thing that can happen is Ethan gets a nice view of the Mediterranean and comes home with a story.»
