Not an anniversary of his death.

The birth of my first child.

My father, who had wanted grandchildren more than he’d wanted another decade, had tied his fortune to the arrival of the next generation, and had trusted me to be holding the controls when it came.

Ivan knew, vaguely, that I’d been left an inheritance.

He had never once asked what it was worth.

It had suited him to imagine it was small.

“How much do I control now, Uncle Andrew?” I asked the dark ceiling.