In the car afterward, Michael found himself thinking not about his father but about inheritance.
Not money. Not furniture. Emotional inheritance. Thomas had passed down height, jawline, and a tendency to mistake competence for moral sufficiency. He had also, without intending to, handed Michael an education in what happens when a man lets women carry the administrative burden of his private life. Michael resolved, with the seriousness age finally grants, not to give his son the same lesson unchecked.
That night he told Caleb some version of the cemetery story.
Not the ugliest details. Just enough. Enough to say that love can be real and still insufficient, that families can fracture without a single villain, and that the people left behind deserve better than silence shaped like politeness. Caleb, nearly grown and unexpectedly perceptive, listened without interrupting. “So Grandpa kind of made everybody fight over categories because he never said the hard thing when it was time,” he said.
Michael blinked. “Yes,” he answered. “That is exactly what happened.”
Caleb nodded slowly. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
A moment later his son added, “I’m glad Grandma and June don’t hate each other forever.” Michael smiled. “They may still dislike each other in spots.” Caleb grinned. “That seems more realistic.” Out of the mouths of seventeen-year-olds, Michael thought, sometimes comes therapy he did not have to pay for.