his son would be brave enough to make. Eric wearing red to that funeral wasn’t disrespect. It was the answer to a question our father had died hoping he’d say yes to.
And sewn into the lining, along with the letter, were the documents: Dad had left Eric something specific, separate from the rest of the estate. Not more than me — I want to be clear, the estate was split evenly, and I’d never have begrudged Eric a cent regardless. It was something else. A fund Dad had quietly built over decades, earmarked in the paperwork with a single line: “For Eric, to make the bright thing he was always meant to make. I’m sorry it took me dying to stop being afraid of it.”
Chapter 4: What the Bright Thing Was
Eric had always wanted to be an artist.
That was the thing our father had spent a lifetime
