Page 73 of Final Proposal

“Is it your brothers? Are they picking on you again?”

“Nah.”

“Then what is it?”

“I read something that bugged me is all.”

“About?” She shifts so she can put her arm around me and pull me against her. She smells like the lemons she was just picking from the lemon tree and the soap she was washing them with in the sink.

I pluck at the legs of my shorts as she sits patiently like we have all the time in the world. And I know we don’t. My dad needs her. Ledger and Callahan probably do too. But she never makes me feel that way. She always gives me time like I’m the only one in the world.

“About Dad.”

Another slow nod. “What about him?”

“About how he’s roofless.”

Her laugh is loud, and she stifles it when I look at her with confusion. “I think it said ruthless, honey. Clearly, we aren’t roof-less,” she says and points to the ridiculously large house at our backs.

“Yeah. Okay. That’s what I meant.”

“What else did it say?”

“Just stuff.” It’s easier to study my fingers than meet her eyes.

“Out with it.” She squeezes my shoulder.

“It said he was a roof—ruthless person who was a womanizing, patronizing, unscrupulous man who puts the profit before all else.”

“Well, you sure got those adjectives right.” She laughs loudly and presses a kiss to the top of my head, completely unfazed by the things I just said that I know aren’t good.

“You’re not mad?”

Mom turns and brushes my hair off my forehead and runs a hand down the side of my face. “Buddy, I’m not mad.”

“Why not? You’re mad when Callahan calls me a douchebag.”

“You’re right. I am. But that’s completely different.”

“How? Why aren’t you mad at those people who called Dad those things?”

“I am mad because they’re not true. But I don’t care if they say those things because they don’t matter.”

“Why don’t they?”

“Because the only comments, criticisms, and words that should matter to you are those that are spoken by your family.”

“You say a lot when you’re angry,” I say and then wince. I can’t believe I just said that out loud.

But my comment is met with a laugh and a ruffle of my hair. “True. I do. Most times, words spoken in anger are hurtful. I’m not talking about those kinds of words. I’m talking about ones your family says about you. How they’d describe you to a friend. It’s those kinds of comments that matter. Everything else is just noise.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“In this world, there will be a lot of people who say things about you. Good. Bad. True. Untrue. You’re a Sharpe. We’re successful, and it’s easier for people to criticize than to admire what we’ve accomplished. But at the end of the day, when you’re old like Grandpa is and are looking back at your life, it’s only what the people who you love say that matters. It’s what they think of you—as a person, as a man, as a brother, as a husband, what have you—that is important and shows the true measure of the man you are.”

“Shouldn’t you care what everyone says?”

Her smile is soft. “You can, but if your family has nothing good to say about you, if they can’t say you were a good, kind person who helped better their world, then was the way you spent your life worth it?”