The room went quiet.
"I'm not here to fight you for the money," Preston said, softer now, some of the rehearsed edge gone out of his voice. "Ferris already told me a contest wouldn't hold up, and honestly, some part of me doesn't even want to try. I think I just needed to come here and see, in person, the kid my father apparently trusted more than he trusted his own son toward the end. I needed to understand what that looked like."
Jonah didn't say anything defensive. He just answered the way I'd watched him answer most things his whole life — plainly.
"I don't think he trusted me more," Jonah said. "I think I was just around. Every Saturday. That's not the same as being better than you. It's just being there."
Preston looked at him for a long moment.
"My father wasn't an easy man," he finally said. "Ask my sister sometime, if you want the fuller version. He wasn't warm, growing up. Wasn't the kind of dad who came to games or asked how school went beyond the report card. I think somewhere along the way I decided that meant I didn't owe him much of my time back, once I was old enough to make that call myself. I think I was wrong about that, and I think this letter is him telling me so from six feet under, which is exactly the kind of thing he'd do."
