No Marcus.
No marble.
Just you, your father, Angela, David Rosen, Arthur, Maya, Detective Bennett, and a few old friends who proved during the investigation that loyalty is not the same as convenience.
Your father wears the watch.
When dessert comes, he taps his glass.
You groan.
“Dad, no speeches.”
He smiles.
“I built a career ignoring objections.”
Everyone laughs.
He looks at you.
“I spent years thinking legacy was buildings. Contracts. A company with my name on it. Then I almost lost the only legacy that mattered because I mistook being cared for with being controlled.”
Your throat tightens.
He continues.
“My daughter came home when I was too ashamed to ask. She did not save me because I deserved it. She saved me because love sometimes has better discipline than pride.”
You look down.
He raises his glass.
“To Isabella. The best builder in the family.”
You cry then.
You do not hide it.
Your father reaches for your hand.
The watch catches the light.
For once, it is where it belongs.
On your fortieth birthday, he gives it to you.
Not because he is dying.
He is not.
He is stubbornly alive and arguing with physical therapists for sport.
He gives it to you over breakfast.
“I want you to have it while I can see you wear it,” he says.
You open the box and see the inscription from your mother.
Your heart squeezes.
“Dad, this is yours.”
“No. It was ours. Your mother gave it to me for building us a life. You rebuilt it.”
You put it on.
The band is too large.
He smiles.
“We’ll resize it.”
You laugh through tears.
“I love you,” he says.
He says it more often now.
Not because time is short.
