Darius was oddly relieved.
Consistency felt more real once it no longer looked like penance.
Renee's repair with Miles was harder.
She had been his mother every day.
The person children expect not to rank them.
One apology could not undo the way he had learned to shrink his requests before making them.
Dr. Green noticed.
“Miles, what do you want for Christmas?”
He shrugged.
“Nothing.”
Renee looked hurt.
Dr. Green asked:
“Really?”
“I don't know.”
“What would you ask for if you knew nobody needed something more?”
Miles went quiet.
That question exposed the problem.
Eventually:
“A telescope.”
Renee stared.
“You want a telescope?”
“For like a year.”
She had no idea.
At home, she cried.
Not because she had missed one gift request.
Because she suddenly saw how thoroughly Miles had stopped telling her what he wanted.
Christmas came.
A telescope appeared beneath the tree.
Renee did not buy it secretly and wait for gratitude.
Two weeks earlier she gave Miles a budget.
“Three hundred dollars.”
He stared.
“For what?”
“Your Christmas gift.”
“You're telling me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m learning surprises are not automatically loving if I don't actually know what you want.”
Miles researched.
Found a telescope for $229.
Then asked whether the remaining money could buy a used astrophotography adapter.
Renee smiled.
“Yes.”
Darius received basketball training equipment from Renee.
Miles did not compare.
Mostly.
The reflex still appeared sometimes.
That was okay.
Devin? No, Darius.
At sixteen, Darius attended the Carolina Elite camp Marcus had funded.
Before leaving, he stood in Walter's garage holding the registration confirmation.
“I feel guilty.”
Walter looked up from a toolbox.
“For?”
“Six thousand dollars.”
“Marcus left it.”
“Miles gets shoes.”
Walter stared.
“Do not do that.”
Darius smiled faintly.
“Math.”
“Yes.”
Walter pointed at him.
“Your father wrote one useful instruction and nobody in this family can follow it.”
Darius laughed.
Then became serious.
“What if I don't make varsity after?”
“You already made varsity.”
“You know what I mean.”
“College.”
“Yes.”
Walter returned to the toolbox.
“Then you went to basketball camp.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Six thousand dollars for nothing?”
“No.”
Walter looked at him.
“For basketball camp.”
Darius thought.
Adults had spent years attaching future justification to everything.
Camp must produce scholarship.
Shoes must produce usefulness.
Money must prove fairness.
Walter had learned something too.
“Not every good thing needs to earn its right to have happened.”
Darius nodded.