CHAPTER 22: EPILOGUE: WHAT WE INHERIT
I used to think an inheritance was something listed in a document: a house, an account, a name carried from one generation to the next. I still believe documents matter. Without careful records and people willing to examine them, Grant’s false signatures might have cost us dearly. But I think differently now about what a child receives from a family. June inherited her grandfather’s trust, yes. She also inherited my mother’s stubborn kindness, my father’s patience, and a habit of asking questions when something feels wrong. From me, I hope she inherits the certainty that she will never need to prove her worth to stay loved. On the anniversary of Lenora’s birthday, I found the silver USB drive in the back of a desk drawer. The files had long since been preserved by professionals, and the original drive was no longer needed for any active review. I placed it in a small box beside June’s first paper rocket. Not as a trophy. As a reminder that the truth should protect a child, never become her burden. June called from the hallway, asking whether I wanted to watch the meteor shower with her. I closed the drawer and followed. The sky above our house was clear. She pointed toward the first streak of light. I did not think about Grant, his mother, or the guests who had watched us that night. I thought only about the girl beside me and the future still opening in front of her.
