“Why didn’t she tell me?”
Ingrid’s expression softened.
“Maybe she wanted you to become yourself before you became her legacy.”
I ran my fingers over the photograph.
Grandma had understood my work because she had done something like it first.
All those conversations.
All those strange, precise questions.
When I explained probability modeling at fourteen, she had not merely been humoring me.
She understood.
Maybe better than I did.
I cried in Ingrid’s office.
Not delicately.
Not elegantly.
I cried for the woman I wished I had known while she was alive.
Then Ingrid turned over one final document.
“There’s something else.”
It was an old patent assignment.
The predictive architecture Grandma built had been transferred to Wexford.
Compensation:
founder shares.
The same shares now inside my trust.
The inheritance was not luck.
It was not merely investment.
Grandma had earned it with her mind.
Suddenly Dad’s resentment became even uglier.
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