Chapter 27 - The Anniversary
The second anniversary of Simone’s death had been unbearable.
The third was different.
Not easier.
Different.
Victor asked Ethan what he wanted to do.
“Nothing big.”
“Okay.”
“No foundation event.”
“Okay.”
“No newspaper tribute.”
“Okay.”
“No sad dinner where everybody whispers.”
Victor smiled.
“Agreed.”
Ethan thought.
“I want to go to the lake.”
They drove to the public shoreline where Simone used to bring Ethan for ice cream.
Maya came because Ethan invited her.
Daniel came.
Adrian could not; he was still serving his sentence.
Victor carried Simone’s old picnic blanket.
Ethan saw it.
“You kept that too?”
“I had a problem.”
“Had?”
Victor laughed.
They sat near the water.
No speeches.
No staged memorial.
Daniel told a story about Simone threatening to report him for jaywalking.
Maya laughed.
Victor corrected half the details.
Ethan ate too much ice cream.
For thirty minutes, grief did not feel sacred.
It felt human.
Later, Ethan rolled closer to the water path.
Victor started to follow.
Then stopped.
Maya noticed.
“Growth.”
Victor sighed.
“Everyone grades me.”
Ethan called back, “B plus!”
Victor laughed.
Near sunset, Ethan asked Victor to walk beside him.
They moved slowly along the path.
“Do you remember the last thing Mom said to you?”
Victor nodded.
“She called from the car before the crash.”
“What did she say?”
Victor had never told him.
“She said I was being impossible.”
Ethan laughed.
“That tracks.”
“I was angry about missing dinner.”
Victor looked ashamed.
“She said, ‘Your son is funnier than you anyway.’”
Ethan smiled.
“True.”
“And then she said she loved me.”
Victor’s voice softened.
“I said I loved her.”
They moved in silence.
Ethan asked, “Do you ever wish you said something better?”
“All the time.”
“Like what?”
Victor thought.
“Nothing dramatic.”
He looked at Ethan.
“I wish I’d asked how her day was.”
Ethan nodded.
“That’s sad.”
“Yes.”
“But also kind of normal.”
Victor smiled.
“Yes.”
Maybe that was why it hurt.
Not because the last conversation lacked perfect words.
Because nobody knows which ordinary moment will become the last one.
Back at the blanket, Maya handed Victor coffee.
Their fingers touched.
Ethan groaned.
“Please don’t.”
Maya smiled.
“You’re twelve.”
“There it is.”
Everyone laughed.
That night, Victor received a letter from Adrian.
The prison had approved his release date three months early.
Adrian wrote:
I’m scared to come home. In here, consequences are simple. Outside, I have to face people who remember what I did. I’m trying not to call that unfair. Simone would hate the self-pity.
Victor read it to Ethan.
Ethan asked, “Are we picking him up?”
“If he wants.”
“He will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re his brother.”
Victor looked at him.
“Does that automatically mean I should?”
“No.”
Ethan shrugged.
“But you want to.”
Victor did.
Three weeks later, they drove to the federal facility.
Adrian walked through the gate carrying a small bag.
He stopped when he saw Ethan.
For a second, neither moved.
Then Ethan smiled.
“Your hair looks terrible.”
Adrian laughed and cried simultaneously.
Victor hugged his brother.
Not because the past disappeared.
It hadn’t.
Adrian still owed restitution.
Still had professional restrictions.
Still had relationships to repair.
But consequence did not require permanent exile.
On the drive home, Adrian looked at Ethan.
“Chess?”
Ethan smiled.
“You’re going to lose.”
Adrian leaned back.
“I missed your arrogance.”
“It’s confidence.”
Maya, driving behind them, would have laughed.
Victor did.
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The line between confidence and arrogance remained negotiable.
The line between love and control no longer was.
