Maeve’s eyes filled.
“She had you.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still here.”
“For now.”
She hated when I said things like that.
Good.
Death should remain rude.
I also named Maeve as one of seven members on the Mercer & Field employee stewardship advisory council after she completed her accounting certification.
Not because she was my heir.
Because by then, she had become one of the sharpest voices I trusted.
She objected.
“I’m a cashier.”
“You’re an employee.”
“There are vice presidents.”
“Yes.”
“Directors.”
“Yes.”
“People with MBAs.”
“Tragic.”
She laughed despite herself.
“Why me?”
“Because you tell me when I’m ridiculous.”
“Nessa already does that.”
“She cannot live forever.”
“Neither can you.”
“Exactly.”
The final months taught me that legacy is a word people use when they are frightened of disappearing.
I used it too.
For years, I thought my legacy was the stores.
Then the trust.
Then perhaps some chosen heir who would preserve my philosophy.
I had been wrong in stages.
The stores mattered.
But not because my name—or the fictional name I invented at thirty—sat above the entrance.
They mattered because people worked there.
Fed families from those paychecks.
Started first jobs.
Built careers.
Bought school clothes.
Sometimes bought soup for strangers.
Not everyone did.
That was the point.
