A man I did not recognize stood on my porch carrying a leather folio. He wore a suit that was a little too expensive for a house call.
I looked at my son.
He would not quite meet my eyes.
“Mom,” he said, “this is Mr. Ferris. He is an attorney.”
I stepped back and let them in because what else do you do?
Your son shows up at your door three days after his father dies, and you let him in. You make coffee. You sit across from the boy you raised and try to find him somewhere in the man’s face.
Mr. Ferris placed his folio on my dining room table and opened it as if he owned the room.
He said he was there on behalf of certain interested parties regarding Walter’s estate.
I raised one hand.
“My husband has been gone for seventy-two hours,” I said.
He paused.
“I understand this is a difficult time.”
“Do you?” I asked. “Because I have not even chosen the flowers for his service yet.”
Suki reached across the table and touched Denton’s arm.
It was a small gesture, but I had seen it before. With Suki, that touch was never only affection. It was a signal. A command.
Denton straightened.
“Mom, we just need to understand what is happening with the company,” he said. “What the transition plan looks like. Dad would have wanted everything to be clear.”
I looked at my son for a long moment.
Walter had worked himself half to death, then the rest of the way, building something for this family. Denton had grown up watching it. He had spent two summers working in dispatch before deciding the business was not for him, which was fine. We never pushed him.
He went into real estate and did well enough. We were proud of him.
But somewhere in the last six years, well enough had started to look smaller next to what Walter had built.
And I think that was when the math changed in Denton’s mind.
Or maybe in Suki’s mind first.
Then his.
“Your father had a plan,” I said. “You will hear about it when the time is appropriate.”
“We would like to hear about it now,” Suki said.