They were ashamed of my old car, my worn-out coat, my hands; hands that had built everything they lived in.
At parties, they presented me as if I were a relic of the past.
“The guy who got lucky.”
That always made me smile.
Because I wasn’t lucky.
I built the world they pretended to understand.
That night, everything fell apart over something insignificant.
I gave Daniel a restored antique watch, something his grandfather had always dreamed of.
He barely looked at him.
He threw it aside as if it meant nothing.
Then, in front of everyone, he said he was tired of me showing up “expecting thanks” in a house that no longer had anything to do with me.
Then I said, calmly:
“Don’t forget who built the ground you stand on.”
That was enough.
