Chapter 23
The years passed, fast and happy.
Lily turned ten, a smart, kind little girl who loved reading and horses and wanted to be a doctor when she grew up, just like her grandmother. Jamie turned eight, a wild, athletic boy who played soccer and baseball and loved getting dirty, just like his grandfather. Rose and Thomas turned five, starting kindergarten, two little redheaded tornadoes who were always together, always getting into trouble.
We were a big, loud, happy family.
We spent every summer at the lake house we’d bought, a big old place on the water, with a dock and a boat and a tree house that my father had built for the kids. We’d spend two months there every year, swimming, fishing, water skiing, having bonfires on the beach at night, roasting marshmallows and telling stories.
We spent every Christmas at the house, with all our friends and family, a huge tree in the living room, so many presents you could barely walk through the door. The kids would wake up at five in the morning, running into our room, jumping on the bed, screaming that Santa had come. We’d open presents, eat too much food, watch old Christmas movies, and fall asleep on the couch together, exhausted and happy.
Clara and I still made time for us. Once a month, we’d go away for the weekend, just the two of us, to a small hotel in the mountains or a cottage by the sea. We’d hike, and read, and make love, and talk, and remember why we’d fallen in love in the first place. We never stopped dating, never stopped trying, never took each other for granted.
The company was still strong, still growing, but I worked less and less, spending more time with my family. James ran most of it now, with Daniel’s help, and they were brilliant at it. I was still the CEO, but I was mostly a figurehead now, showing up for big meetings, giving speeches, shaking hands. The real work was theirs, and they were good at it.
Clara’s foundation was now one of the biggest in the world, helping millions of people every year. She traveled all over the world, opening schools and hospitals, giving speeches, meeting presidents and kings. But she always came home, always made it to the kids’ soccer games and school plays and birthday parties. She was their mom first, everything else second.
My father turned eighty, and we threw him the biggest party of all. He was still healthy, still sharp, still gardening and playing with the kids. He gave a speech that night, saying that he’d spent most of his life chasing money and success, thinking that was what mattered. But he’d been wrong. The only thing that mattered was family. Love. The people who stood by you when things were hard.
Everyone cried, even the tough guys like Marcus.
That night, after the party, my father pulled me aside.
“I’m proud of you, son,” he said. “You built something amazing. But more than that, you built an amazing family. You’re a better man than I ever was.”
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I hugged him, crying. “I learned from the best.”
He died a year later, peacefully, in his sleep. We buried him next to my mother, in the cemetery on the hill. The kids put flowers on their grave every week, talking to them like they were still there. We missed him every day, but we knew he was happy, finally, with the woman he’d loved for so long.
