Not winning.

Not revenge; I’d had what looked like revenge and it had tasted of almost nothing, a bill coming due, no more.

The free part came after, here, on this porch, in this house his hands had built, with nobody left to perform for and nothing left to hide and a daughter who would grow up knowing exactly who her father was and exactly what he’d given and exactly, always, that she was wanted.

That was the whole inheritance.

Not the house, though I was glad of the house.

The wanting.