Page 41 of Brother in Law with Benefits

12

Grant

Thursday morning. Six AM. Sitting in my truck outside Copper Falls Cemetery watching the sun come up over the hill.

I was here Sunday. I said what I needed to say. I left knowing what the decision was.

Today is the day I make it.

The gate is unlocked. I walk to Section B, Row 7. The grass is still damp from overnight dew, boots leaving prints.

DAVID LAWRENCE GUILLIGAN 1955 — 2022

I don't sit down this time.

"Hey, Dad. I’m going to make the call," I tell him. "To David. That's step one. I'm staying. Found out about a job possibility at Sullivan Construction. Meeting about it this afternoon. It's local work. Water main project for the town. Less money than I've been making but it's here." I look at the headstone. "I know you'd have thoughts about the pay cut."

The wind moves through the oak tree. Traffic on Route 53 in the distance.

"Sophie's scared I'm doing this for the wrong reasons. She's probably right to be scared — I've given her reasons to be." I put my hands in my pockets. "But I went to the cemetery Sunday and came home and called David the same day. Not because she was watching. Not because you were watching. Because it was time." I pause. "I think you'd call that overdue. I think you'd be right."

I touch the headstone once, briefly.

"I'll bring Mom when she's stronger. She'd like that."

I walk back to my truck without looking back.

***

David Kowalski picks up on the second ring.

"Grant. How's your mother?"

"Doing well. Two more rounds and she should be in the clear."

"That's great news. I've got the Brazil details—"

"I'm not taking it."

Silence.

"I'm staying in Illinois," I say. "Done with overseas contracts."

"Grant." He sounds genuinely thrown. "This is $200K base plus hazard pay. You'd be the project lead."

"I know. And I appreciate it. But I need to build something permanent. Be close to family." I pause. "I need to stay."

More silence. Then: "Okay. I respect that. Fifteen years of excellent work, Grant. Door's open if that ever changes."

"It won't. But, thank you, David."

I hang up.

I just turned down $200K. Turned down the work I've been doing for twenty years. I turned down the version of my life where I keep moving, the one where every eighteen months I getto be someone new in a new country with no history anyone can hold against me.

There's a particular kind of freedom in that life that I've spent two decades telling myself it was the only kind worth having and letting go of it in a five-minute phone call feels less like a door closing and more like watching a familiar building come down, controlled demolition, exactly on schedule, and me standing in the dust of it deciding whether to be sad about the mess or grateful for the empty lot.

I sit with the silence of the parking lot for longer than the moment strictly requires, running my thumb along the edge of the phone, and I think about the last time I made a decision this size.