Everyone except Grandpa.
When I helped protect nearly two hundred homes from flooding, Grandpa asked questions. He listened. He understood that quiet work could matter more than polished speeches.
That was why I kept showing up.
Then Damon started treating the Callaway name like something he could sell.
One Sunday, he announced that Grandpa had built the name, but he could finally make it profitable. My mother laughed. My father smiled.
Grandpa did not.
Three weeks later, Mom announced that Grandpa’s eighty-second birthday dinner would be “special.” Damon sent the family a photo of himself outside a glass office tower with the message: Big things coming for the Callaway name.
I knew something was wrong.
Two days before the dinner, Dad called and asked me not to “make things uncomfortable.” That told me everything.
Then Damon emailed the family a glossy proposal titled A Future Worthy of the Callaway Legacy.
