Anna was taken from me on a rain-slick highway in 1989. We never had children. The doctors had given me six months, and Stage IV cancer did not care how many stores carried my family name.
By then, I had heard enough whispers to know Derek was not the only one waiting for me to die. To some of them, I was no longer a man. I was a signature, a vacancy, a walking bag of money.
“Sir, you look stronger today,” Derek said, smiling as he stepped inside. He was the regional manager I had groomed for twelve years.
“I’m dying, Derek. Don’t insult me.”
“I only meant to be encouraging.” His eyes flicked to the prescription bottles on the side table, counting them.
He stepped out, and I followed him at a distance, slow on my cane, soft on the rug.
“I brought the transition documents,” he said, sliding a folder across the marble. “Just preliminary. For when you’re ready.”
