Genevieve

The email arrived at 9:02 AM. No subject line, just a calendar invite for 2:00 PM and a brief note: “Regarding your future. Please be prompt.”

It was signed “Arthur,” but in my head, he had never been Arthur. He was Uncle. He was the man who had taught me how to ride a bike when my father was drowning in endless board meetings, the one who brought the “good” chocolates to every Sunday dinner, and the only person my father actually trusted with everything, including me.

I ...