Chapter 7 - A FAMILY BUILT ON CHOICE
Eli did not speak for almost five minutes.
Then he laughed.
One small, disbelieving sound.
“So Roman Mercer is my uncle.”
“Biologically.”
“That is the worst possible trivia question.”
I almost cried.
“Elijah.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I don’t know what I am.”
“That’s allowed.”
He looked at Gabriel’s letter.
“Did he want me?”
The question broke my heart.
I chose my words carefully.
“I think he wanted you safe more than he wanted access to you.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It also may have been easier for him than staying.”
Eli nodded.
“Dad would say that.”
“Yes.”
He read the letter again.
Then asked, “Did Roman know me?”
“Only from what Dad told him.”
Eli looked up.
“Dad talked about me?”
“Apparently constantly.”
A faint smile.
Then it disappeared.
“Why didn’t Dad tell me before he died?”
I had no answer.
Maybe fear.
Maybe timing.
Maybe he thought twenty was still too young.
Maybe he was waiting for a moment that never came.
“I don’t know.”
Eli looked toward the window.
“I’m angry.”
“You’re allowed.”
“At Dad.”
“I know.”
“That feels terrible.”
“I know.”
He cried then.
Quietly.
I moved beside him.
He leaned into me the way he used to when he was eight.
“I thought he trusted me.”
“He did.”
“Then why hide this?”
“Because parents can trust you and still be afraid.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“It is.”
He laughed through tears.
For several days, Eli wanted nothing to do with Roman.
Roman respected that.
No messages.
No gifts.
No sudden appearances.
I noticed.
Meanwhile, I had to make a decision about the job.
Hawthorne House offered me my old shifts back.
Miles apologized for panicking.
Roman’s company offered the senior events role exactly as promised.
Triple pay still felt absurd.
Benefits mattered.
But after reading the contract with an employment attorney from a free legal clinic, I discovered something important.
The salary was not a favor.
Mercer Events had been trying to fill a senior client-services position for months.
The normal rate was only slightly lower than what I had been offered.
My restaurant experience qualified me.
The “triple salary” sounded more dramatic because Hawthorne House had been underpaying me.
That made me angrier than anything else.
I took the job.
Not because Roman owed Dad.
Because I was qualified.
I negotiated the salary upward by another eight percent.
Roman heard about that and sent one message.
Daniel would approve.
I replied:
Daniel would ask why you didn’t offer it first.
Roman answered:
Also true.
My new manager was a woman named Celeste Marrow.
Fifty-three.
Sharp-eyed.
Efficient.
On my first day she said, “I don’t care who you know.”
“Excellent.”
“I care whether you can manage twelve demanding clients without setting anything on fire.”
“I worked brunch service for six years.”
Celeste nodded.
“You’ll be fine.”
For the first time in months, my paycheck covered the bills without requiring mathematics that resembled hostage negotiation.
Eli’s medical insurance improved.
I slept.
Actually slept.
The change frightened me.
I had been in survival mode so long that calm felt suspicious.
Then Eli finally asked to meet Roman.
His choice.
Not mine.
We met in a quiet café during the afternoon.
Roman arrived alone.
Eli stared at him.
Roman stared back.
The resemblance was not obvious.
But once I knew, I could see something around the eyes.
Eli broke the silence.
“So.”
Roman waited.
“You’re my uncle.”
“Biologically.”
Eli smiled faintly.
“Tessa says the same thing.”
“She is usually precise.”
“She’s usually bossy.”
“That too.”
I glared at both of them.
For the first time, Roman smiled fully.
It transformed his face.
Made him look younger.
Less myth.
More human.
Eli asked about Gabriel.
Roman answered carefully.
Gabriel had been funny.
Restless.
Good with music.
Terrible with money.
Always trying to prove he did not care what people thought while caring deeply.
“He wanted to leave,” Roman said.
“Why didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“For Mom?”
“For himself.”
Eli seemed to appreciate that answer.
“Was he a bad person?”
Roman looked down at his coffee.
“No.”
Then added, “He made bad choices.”
“That’s different?”
“It has to be.”
I watched Roman as he said it.
Perhaps he was talking about more than Gabriel.
Eli asked, “Did he know about my heart?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Roman swallowed.
“He thought it came from him.”
Eli frowned.
“Did it?”
“Possibly. Our family has cardiac history.”
My stomach tightened.
“We need to tell Dr. Shah.”
“Yes,” Eli said immediately.
Roman nodded.
“I can provide family medical records if they help.”
Not money.
Not control.
Information.
Useful information.
That meeting changed something.
Not everything.
Eli did not suddenly call Roman Uncle Roman.
He did not ask to enter Roman’s world.
He asked for photographs.
Stories.
Medical history.
Small pieces.
May you like
Roman gave them.
One at a time.
