The question caught me off guard. My eight-year-old was contemplating corporate succession while I could barely remember to brush my teeth. But of course, he was. Austin had Marco’s mind for systems. Even grief, for him, needed to be organized.
Before I could answer, the landline on the desk rang, a sound so jarring I flinched. I picked it up on muscle memory. “Hello?”
“Theresa, it’s Arthur. Arthur Vance.”
I closed my eyes. “Arthur. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said, his voice carrying a note of professional concern. “How are you holding up?”
“We’re managing,” I said, the standard lie.I’m drowning. I wake up every morning and forget for three seconds he’s gone, and then it’s like losing him all over again.
“I was hoping I might stop by,” Arthur continued. “I have some papers... and Helen has made a casserole.”
Another one. The freezer was already a fortress of pitying casseroles. “That’s not necessary...”
“I insist. Say, around three this afternoon?”
Too tired to argue, I agreed. Austin watched me, his eyes serious. When I hung up, he asked, “Was that Mr. Vance?”
“Yes, he’s coming by this afternoon.”
Austin’s face darkened. “Why?”
“To bring some papers, he said. And another casserole.”
“Oh.” Austin looked down at his small hands. “I heard Dad tell Mom-Mom that Mr. Vance was a shark in a suit.”
I pictured it instantly: Marco and my mother, confiding in the kitchen during one of her visits. “Your father said that?”
“Yeah. Dad said Mr. Vance was smart, but he wasn’t...um… ‘aligned with our mission.’ What does that mean?”
I stared at my son, seeing his father so clearly in the set of his jaw. “It means,” I said, “that your dad built CarideoTech to help people. That was his primary goal. Making money was important, but it came second.”
“And Mr. Vance doesn’t care about helping people?”
“For some people, Austin, making money for the shareholders is the most important thing.”
He considered this, his small face serious. “I think you should run the company now.”
Could I really? In the fog of grief, I’d barely thought about it. But technically, now, with Marco’s shares and mine combined, I was the biggest stockholder with 40%. Not a majority, but still, maybe I could?
“I don’t know yet,” I said honestly. “There are a lot of decisions to be made by the board.”
Austin nodded solemnly, as if he understood the importance of those decisions better than I did.
I stood and extended my hand. “Come, let’s go help clean up the kitchen.”
Half hour later, the kitchen was sparkling clean. Two hours before Arthur would show.
Michael insisted on taking all six kids to the park with Shelly. “Burn off some energy,” he said. “Give you some space.”
I nodded my thanks and watched from the window as they crammed into Michael’s minivan, a jumble of small bodies and loud voices. When the house fell silent, the emptiness was both a relief and unbearable.
I stood in the hallway, still in my sweatpants and Marco’s sweatshirt, hair not properly brushed. I looked exactly like what Arthur expected—a grieving widow who could barely hold it together, drowning in domesticity.
And maybe that was true. Maybe I was drowning.
But I’d be damned if I’d let Arthur Vance see it.
