They Got Millions at Grandpa’s Funeral, I Got ONE Plane Ticket! Then 6 Words Changed Everything
Vernon leaned forward, his hands already forming fists of anticipation. «We understand, Harwick. Roland discussed the succession plan with me extensively.» That was a lie, and everyone knew it.
Grandfather never discussed business outside the office, and he certainly never promised anything to anyone. But Vernon had been telling anyone who’d listen that he was taking over as CEO, that Preston would be his right hand, and that the family legacy was secure. «Let’s proceed then,» Harwick opened the leather-bound folder.
«To my eldest son, Vernon Whitmore, and his wife Beatrice, I leave the estate in the Hamptons and the investment portfolio contained in account ending in 471.» Beatrice grabbed Vernon’s arm, her diamond bracelet catching the light. «The Hamptons house. Oh, Vernon. He did remember how much we loved it there.»
«To my grandson, Preston Whitmore,» Harwick continued, «I leave Whitmore Shipping Industries and all its operational assets, with the condition that he maintains current employment levels for at least one year.» Preston stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. «I knew it,» he said.
«Grandfather, I won’t let you down.» He was already pulling out his phone, probably to update his LinkedIn profile to CEO. «To my granddaughter, Mallory Whitmore, I leave the Manhattan penthouse on Central Park West and the yacht, Serenity, currently moored in Newport.»
Mallory let out a squeal that could have shattered crystal. «The penthouse! Oh my God, do you know what that’s worth? And the yacht. My followers are going to die.»
Mr. Harwick turned to me, and I saw something in his eyes that looked almost like pity. «And to my grandson, Nathan Whitmore, I leave this.» He pulled out a small white envelope, worn at the corners, my name written across it in Grandfather’s shaky handwriting.
The room went silent for exactly two seconds before Preston started laughing. «Are you serious?» Preston’s voice cracked with amusement. «That’s it? An envelope?»
I took it with steady hands, though my heart was pounding. The paper felt thin, insignificant. Inside was a single plane ticket. Rome. One way. Departing in forty-eight hours.
«Let me guess,» Preston snatched the ticket from my hand before I could stop him. «A coach ticket? Oh, this is rich. The teacher gets a vacation.»
Mallory was already recording on her phone. «This is actually hilarious. Nathan, your face right now. Don’t worry, maybe he left you some frequent flyer miles too.»
Vernon stood up, straightening his tie with the authority of someone who’d just won everything. «Roland always said you lacked the killer instinct for business, Nathan. At least he gave you something nice. Rome is lovely this time of year.»
«It’s probably his way of saying goodbye,» Beatrice added, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. «A little trip to help you process everything. How thoughtful.» My mother, who’d been silent in the corner, finally spoke. «Is that everything, Mr. Harwick?»
«That concludes the distribution of assets,» Harwick replied, closing the folder. «There is a personal letter for Nathan to be opened only upon his arrival in Rome.»
«A letter!» Preston was practically howling now. «What’s it gonna say? ‘Sorry you’re poor. Enjoy the pizza.'»
«Preston, enough,» Vernon said, though he was smiling. «Nathan chose his path. He wanted to be a teacher, and Roland respected that enough to give him a parting gift. We should all be grateful for what we’ve received.»
I looked at the ticket again. October 15. 3:00 p.m. Arrival. Alitalia flight 621. Why so specific? Why Rome?
Grandfather had never mentioned Italy in all our years of chess games. He’d talked about Shanghai, London, Hamburg, but never Rome. «Well,» I stood up, sliding the ticket back into the envelope. «I guess I’d better pack.»
«You’re actually going?» Mallory looked genuinely surprised. «You’re going to use your sick days to take a random trip to Rome?» «Your grandfather gave me a ticket,» I said, meeting each of their eyes in turn. «The least I can do is use it.»
Vernon shook his head. «Sentimental fool, just like your father. Dennis never understood that emotion has no place in business either.» That’s when I knew I was definitely getting on that plane.
Because Vernon was wrong about my father, wrong about me, and maybe, just maybe, wrong about what Grandfather had really left me. The ticket weighed nothing in my pocket, but somehow it felt heavier than all the millions they’d just inherited. As I walked out of that country club, their laughter following me to the parking lot, I remembered Grandfather’s last words to me during our final chess game.
«The best moves, Nathan, are the ones your opponent never sees coming.» The rain had stopped, and for the first time that day, the sun broke through the clouds. That night, I sat at my kitchen table staring at the plane ticket while my laptop displayed my bank account balance.
$1,847.23. My rent was due in five days. My car needed new brake pads. I had forty-three essays on the Civil War to grade. Every logical part of my brain screamed that flying to Rome was insane.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about Grandfather’s face during our last chess game, just two weeks before he died. He’d been different that day, softer somehow, like he’d finally stopped playing a role he’d been performing for decades. «Nathan,» he’d said, moving his knight in a pattern I didn’t recognize. «What do you know about trust?»
«It’s earned, not given,» I’d responded, the same answer he’d drilled into all of us since childhood. «No, boy, real trust is knowing when to follow without understanding why. Your father knew that. He trusted me with something once, something precious, and I failed him.»
«But you, Nathan, you’re different,» he continued. «You don’t want anything from me.» «I never have, Grandfather,» I said. «I know. That’s why when the time comes, you’ll trust me. Even when everyone else thinks you’re a fool.»
Now, holding that ticket, his words felt less like a memory and more like a message. I picked up my phone and called my mother. «I’m going,» I said as soon as she answered. «I knew you would,» Grace replied without hesitation.
«Your grandfather called me last month. He didn’t say much, just that I should support whatever decision you made after the funeral.» «Mom, this is crazy,» I said. «I can’t afford to miss work. I have responsibilities.»
«Nathan, your father once told me that Roland wasn’t always the man we knew,» she said softly. «He said there was a before and after in his father’s life, and we only knew the after. Maybe this is about the before.»
I spent the next morning at Lincoln High arranging for a substitute teacher. My principal, Dr. Washington, wasn’t happy about the sudden request, but I’d never taken a sick day in six years, so she grudgingly approved three days off. Three days to fly to Rome and figure out what game my grandfather was playing.
«Mr. Whitmore, you okay?» asked Jasmine, one of my brightest students after my last class. «You seem different today.» «Just thinking about history, Jasmine,» I replied. «How sometimes the most important moments look like nothing when they’re happening.»
I packed light: one carry-on bag with two changes of clothes, and my father’s old leather journal that I’d carried since his funeral. The Uber to Detroit Metropolitan Airport cost me thirty-two dollars I couldn’t spare, but I was already committed to this insanity. At the gate, waiting to board, I pulled out the envelope again.
That’s when I noticed something I’d missed before. In the corner, barely visible, was a tiny number written in pencil: 1947. The year Grandfather would have been twenty-two. The year after he’d left the Navy.
The flight attendant called my boarding group, and I got in line behind a family arguing about seating arrangements. The mother was trying to juggle two kids while the father checked his phone obsessively. They were normal people with normal problems, not wondering why their dead grandfather had sent them on a mysterious journey across the Atlantic.
I found my seat, 32B, a middle seat in the back of the plane. Of course, Preston had been right about it being coach. The man to my left was already asleep and snoring. The woman to my right had claimed both armrests and was watching a movie on her iPad without headphones.
As the plane lifted off, Detroit shrinking below us, I thought about Preston, probably already in Grandfather’s office, sitting in his chair, feeling like a king. Mallory was definitely posting sunset photos from the yacht by now. Vernon and Beatrice were probably meeting with financial advisers about their newfound wealth.
And here I was, cramped in coach, flying toward a mystery with money I didn’t have to spare. But something felt right about it. For the first time since Grandfather died, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
The flight attendant came by with drinks. «Sir? Something to drink?» «Just water, thanks,» I said. She handed me a bottle, and as I twisted it open, I remembered another chess lesson.
Grandfather had sacrificed his queen, the most powerful piece, to win a game. I’d been shocked, unable to understand why he’d give up so much. «Power isn’t about what you have, Nathan,» he’d explained. «It’s about what you’re willing to lose to gain something better. Most people can’t see past the loss, that’s why they never really win.»
The plane banked east, heading into the night, toward Rome and whatever Grandfather had hidden there. My cousins thought they’d won everything that mattered. But as I settled in for the eight-hour flight, I had a feeling that Grandfather’s real game was just beginning, and I was the only piece he’d positioned to play it.
The captain announced our cruising altitude, and I closed my eyes, my father’s journal pressed against my chest, trusting a dead man’s plan even though I couldn’t see the board. The wheels touched down at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport at exactly 3:07 p.m. local time. My legs were cramped, my back ached, and I’d barely slept during the eight-hour flight.
The Italian announcements mixed with English as we taxied to the gate, and suddenly the reality hit me. I was in Rome with no hotel reservation, no plan, and no idea what I was supposed to do next. Immigration was a blur of stamps and questions. «Purpose of visit?» the officer asked in accented English.
