Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
He gives her a respectful nod, which she returns.
“To Sheldon, his son, your father spoke of you with a pride that softened even his sharpest edges. He once described you to me not as just my son, but as ‘my greatest experiment in hope.’”
There’s a soft murmur of approval at that.
“And to Axel,” the vicar goes on, and his gaze shifts subtly to the second row. “Axel, who shared not only professional battles but personal loyalty with Joseph. He valued your counsel. He trusted your steel.”
The vicar pauses for a second to let the words settle.
“But for all his global reach, Joseph’s truest and happiest moments were often the quietest ones. He loved playing chess with his friends on Sunday mornings after church, though he rarely admitted when he was beaten. He believed good coffee was a moral necessity. He kept a worn leather notebook by his bed filled with questions and thoughts.”
He pauses again, and when he speaks once more, he uses a softer tone.
“There was, in Joseph, a private tenderness few saw. He understood that brilliance without love is hollow. That achievement without connection echoes. In one of our final conversations, he spoke to me about unfinished bridges. He said that some structures are built from steel and glass, and some are built from courage. He hoped, he said, that the bridges he had not yet crossed might one day be finished by hands braver than his own.”
The words hang there, ambiguous to most, but startlingly accurate to me. Am I his unfinished bridge? The one that needed courage rather than steel?
“But perhaps that is the truth of legacy in its truest form, not what we complete, but what we set in motion.”
The vicar looks around the entire congregation once more and then he closes the folder in front of him gently.
“Joseph Manswell changed industries. He altered trajectories. He dared to ask what if and then insisted on asking why not. But beyond the myth, beyond the legend, was a man who sought redemption in creation, who loved imperfectly but deeply, and who believed above all that the future is built by those willing to reach for it.”
The vicar bows his head.
“May he rest in eternal peace. And may we honor him not only by remembering what he achieved, but by finishing building the bridges that he began. Let us pray.”
I bow my head and listen to the vicar as he prays for my father, all the while trying to reconcile the titan described in the eulogy with the abstract concept of an estranged father. Father. Even the word feels utterly foreign.
The prayer ends and the vicar moves to one side, and a montage begins to play on screens set discreetly along the walls. There are photographs of Joseph as a child, a teenager, and a young man. Photographs of his wedding, of Sheldon as a baby. Photographs of days out, and vacations. Photographs from conferences. Photographs from ribbon cuttings. Photographs from charity galas.
There are photographs of Joseph shaking hands with presidents, Joseph laughing on stage, Joseph standing in front of rockets, solar arrays, and glass buildings.
He looks charismatic. Sharp. Alive. I search for any resemblance between us. There certainly isn’t any between Sheldon and me. Sheldon looks a lot like Lydia.
It occurs to me suddenly that the line of my father’s jaw is similar to mine. And I definitely have his eyes.
My chest aches suddenly. Not because I knew him. But because I didn’t. Because there are no photos of him holding me as a baby. No birthdays. No school plays. No graduations. An entire parallel life existed without me in it. And yet, biologically, I am a part of him.
I blink hard, surprised to feel tears gathering in my eyes. Why does this hurt? Joseph was a stranger to me. But he wasn’t just any stranger. He was a possibility. And now that possibility is sealed in a coffin at the front of the room.
Chapter
Seven
JO
Awoman stands up to speak, and the sound of her steps echoes loudly through the church, giving me a chance to clear my throat and blink away the tears. The vicar introduces her as one of the CEOs on his board and then stands aside for her.
The woman who rises to the podium is impeccably dressed in a charcoal-colored dress, her silver hair pulled into a disciplined knot at the nape of her neck. Her heels click sharply against the marble tiles behind the podium before she stills herself. She doesn’t look at the congregation at first. She looks at the coffin. Then she lifts her chin and turns to address her audience.
“My name is Eleanor Vance,” she begins, her voice clear and steady, trained for speaking in boardrooms during hostile takeovers. “I’ve had the privilege of serving as one of the chief executive officers of Manswell Technologies for twenty-three years. Serving the company… and surviving it.”