Marcus sits across from you in a gray sweatshirt, no watch, no arrogance, no mother behind him.
“She said he wanted me to have it,” he says.
You stare at him.
“The watch. The cars. The shares. She said Richard saw me as the son he never had.”
You almost laugh.
“You believed that?”
His face crumples with anger and shame.
“I wanted to.”
That, finally, sounds true.
He continues.
“You don’t know what it was like. She raised me telling me we deserved more. That men like Richard took what they wanted and called it building. She said if we didn’t take our place, people like you would leave us scraps.”
You lean forward.
“My father gave you a home.”
“He gave me your leftovers.”
“No,” you say. “Your mother taught you to call kindness leftovers because gratitude would have ruined her plan.”
Marcus looks away.
For the first time, he looks young.
Not innocent.
Just unfinished.
“Did you know she withheld his medication?” you ask.
He does not answer.
That is answer enough.
