By the third year, we were in talks with two major designers.
Five years in, I had built and now owned two textile warehouses! I employed 40 people and expanded into outdoor performance wear and custom uniform production. Grandpa’s name was on every label, and I never changed it.
It was a message from Jenna.
“Hey Em, any chance you could loan me some cash?
Things haven’t been so great lately…”
I stared at it, blinking. Then came another from Travis, asking about investment opportunities. Uncle Ted called to “catch up,” which really meant he’d lost the boat he bought, because he couldn’t afford to keep it docked.
Another cousin lost a fortune on crypto after investing in it just before the crash.
I heard from nearly every cousin and even some aunts and uncles.
Turns out, nearly all of them had blown through their inheritance on vacations, cars, or bad investments.
One even bought a luxury SUV and defaulted on payments, while another tried to open a gluten-free pancake café that folded in six months.
I wrote back to them and politely declined.
“Hey, I’m really sorry things are tough right now. Grandpa gave me something priceless, not just an inheritance, but a chance to build.
I worked hard to get here, and I really hope you understand, but I’m not able to loan anything out. Wishing you the best.”
None of them responded after that. Not with laughter, not with sarcasm.
Just silence.
One evening, I sat alone in the office I’d built on the second floor of the farmhouse. It still had the same fireplace from the old days.
The photo of Grandpa Thomas, the one where he was standing in front of his first sewing machine with grease on his nose, hung above the mantle. I raised my coffee mug and whispered, “Thanks for trusting me.
There was no response, just the soft click of the lock as I locked up and the warmth of a legacy finally honored.
