Chapter 4: Family History

Our family legacy started with my great-grandfather.

Old photos of him hang in every room at the family estate—big mustache, starched collar, handshake with a governor. He started with nothing, built a business empire one deal at a time.

By the time it passed to my grandfather, the family was wealthy and respected.

Gramps bought a house on the lake, joined the country club, hosted legendary Fourth of July cookouts. Our last name opened doors all over town.

The old man enjoyed a peaceful life—no big scandals, no family drama. With nothing better to do, he devoted himself to raising kids.

He used to hold Sunday dinners, carving the roast while telling stories about ‘the old days.’ You’d think he was born with a silver spoon, but he never let us forget the struggle.

In Dad’s generation, siblings are too many to count—just the sons who made it to adulthood number over twenty.

Family reunions were chaos—kids everywhere, aunts bickering, cousins fighting over who got the biggest slice of pie. The family tree was more like a forest.

To take over the family business, the brothers fought like wolves.

There were power plays in every Thanksgiving football game and real-life showdowns at the dinner table. Alliances shifted with the weather.

Once, Grandpa called Dad into his study after a board meeting to report on the company.

Dad always said the smell of old leather books in that room made him nervous. You knew it was serious when Grandpa closed the door.

Uncle Frank secretly spiked Dad’s coffee with something strong.

Yeah, Uncle Frank—the black sheep. He thought slipping a little ‘motivation’ into Dad’s cup would give him an edge. Families can be ruthless when big money’s on the line.

Dad was affected, sweating bullets, but couldn’t leave the meeting.

He still gets red-faced telling the story—says he thought he’d pass out, but he kept his mouth shut, determined not to show weakness.

Just then, a secretary sent by Grandma Lillian to deliver cookies happened to pass by, and so I was conceived.

Turns out, Mom was that secretary. Fate, bourbon, and betrayal—sometimes life writes its own soap opera.

That’s why Mom and I have never been favorites of Dad.

You can’t help but feel the chill sometimes. We’re the living reminders of Dad’s worst day, and it shows in the way he keeps his distance.

Whenever he sees us, he remembers the humiliation of being set up.

He can’t look at me without thinking of old wounds. Even his smiles feel forced.

Still, for Grandma Lillian’s sake, he gave us proper respect—just didn’t care about us much.

She insisted on family unity, and in public, he did his duty. In private, we were just... present.

For example, he never visits Mom, never remembers my birthday, never once tossed a baseball with me.

All my friends have stories about playing catch with their dads. Me? I learned to throw from Noah’s granddad. Mom baked me cakes every year, just the two of us singing ‘Happy Birthday’ by candlelight.

Ah well, what’s the big deal?

Some people have two parents, some get by with one. I got a mom who makes killer cinnamon rolls—call it even.

Big families can be the coldest—if you don’t have a strong heart, you’ll just end up bitter.

I learned early that warmth doesn’t always come from blood ties. The trick is not letting the frostbite get to your bones.

As for Uncle Frank, his end was truly miserable.

There’s family legend about how he left in the middle of the night, headlights vanishing down a snowy road. Nobody talks about him at reunions anymore.

After Dad took over, Uncle Frank was sent to a remote branch in Alaska, and his whole family moved out there.

Last I heard, he runs a gas station and ice-fishing tour. Dad’s way of cleaning house—out of sight, out of mind.

Fights for the top spot are always all-or-nothing.

In our family, you win or you vanish. Nobody remembers the runners-up.