Daniel flinched. “She thinks it’s… impossible,” he admitted, voice quiet, “that Oliver would leave you everything.”
I met his gaze. “Is it impossible,” I asked, “or is it inconvenient?”
Daniel’s face tightened. He looked away.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered.
“You didn’t want to know,” I corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”
Daniel’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah,” he said. Then, almost helplessly, “I don’t know how you’re still… standing.”
I thought of my bus rides. My studio window facing brick. The clinic’s fluorescent lights. Oliver’s sweater on my chair. The framed letter on my wall.
“I’m standing because I have to,” I said. “And because Oliver told me what you’d do.”
Daniel’s eyes lifted sharply. “He did?” he asked.
I nodded. “He warned me,” I said. “He said your family would show me who they were when he was gone.”
Daniel swallowed. “He knew,” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
Daniel stared at his coffee for a long time. His hands trembled slightly, like he was fighting something inside himself.
When he spoke again, his voice was smaller.
“I wish I’d been different,” he said.
I didn’t comfort him. Comfort would’ve been cheap. Instead I said the truth.
“You can still be,” I replied. “But you’ll have to pay for it.”
Daniel nodded once, like he understood that being brave would cost him membership in the family narrative.
He slid two hundred dollars across the table then—crisp bills, awkwardly offered like a peace offering.
I stared at it.
I didn’t need it.
But I understood why he did it.
It wasn’t charity. It was an attempt to balance something inside him.
I accepted it.
Not because I wanted his money.
Because he needed to give it.
Daniel exhaled like he’d been holding his breath.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
I pocketed it and said, “Don’t thank me. Go be useful somewhere else.”
He almost smiled. Almost.
