Chapter 57 - The Grant’s Fifth Year
The Curiosity Grant turned five.
I still refused the word anniversary.
Everyone ignored me.
They printed YEAR FIVE on the invitations.
Acceptable.
Fifty-seven students applied.
Fifteen received grants.
Halcyon renewed its support.
Dad’s future bequest remained untouched because Dad was thankfully still alive and complaining.
Tyler Greene returned from college to give the opening remarks.
He had grown into his suit.
That offended me.
Children should ask permission before becoming adults.
The showcase was held in a middle-school gym.
No chandeliers.
No donor reception.
No grieving-family photographs.
Perfect.
One student built an adaptive controller for his sister.
Another studied soil contamination near an old industrial property.
A seventh grader tried to create biodegradable fishing lures.
They dissolved during testing.
He considered that partially successful.
Evan would have adored him.
Patricia asked me to say a few words.
I almost refused.
Then Nico said, “You can’t spend your whole life making other people talk about Dad because you’re scared.”
Rude.
Correct.
I stood at the microphone.
No prepared speech.
That was dangerous.
“My husband Evan taught science.”
I paused.
For years, saying his name publicly felt like opening a door someone might run through.
Nobody moved.
“He believed students deserved room to be wrong.”
A few teachers smiled.
“He also believed science fairs required too much poster board.”
Laughter.
I relaxed.
“This grant exists because people remembered how he lived. Not because of how he died.”
Silence.
Good silence.
“It is administered independently. Students do not need to tell us their worst day. They do not need to prove hardship by exposing private pain. They need an idea, curiosity, and sometimes a little help.”
I looked at the students.
“That is all.”
I stepped away.
No applause line planned.
They applauded anyway.
I survived.
Afterward, Mom hugged me.
She asked first.
Dad did not ask.
Different relationship.
He crushed me until I complained.
Bryn stood nearby.
“You sounded like a person who gives speeches.”
“Insulting.”
“I meant it nicely.”
Grant took photographs for the school newspaper.
He had become interested in journalism.
That terrified everyone for obvious reasons.
But his journalism teacher adored him.
“He asks whether people consent before he records them,” she told Bryn.
We all laughed harder than the sentence deserved.
Grant pretended not to understand why.
Nico had volunteered at the astronomy station.
Arlo handled check-in.
Of course.
He redesigned the sign-in process because the foundation’s system was “an attack on flow.”
Patricia offered him a summer internship.
He accepted before she finished speaking.
At the end of the day, we stacked chairs.
Real chairs.
No rankings.
No reserved family row.
Mom picked up trash beside Vivian.
Dad argued with Tyler about whether engineering students actually slept.
Evelyn carried leftover cookies.
Bryn loaded boxes.
The twins fought over music.
Grant photographed everyone when they were not posing.
I stood alone for one minute in the empty gym.
Five years.
The fake project had once raised money by promising donors access to grieving children.
This program asked children for ideas.
That difference contained our entire journey.
Patricia approached.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’re doing a face.”
I looked at her.
“Apparently it’s hereditary.”
She handed me a final application left on the table.
A student wanted seventy-eight dollars to build a homemade weather station.
I smiled.
Evan once helped Miles Ross build a storm model.
A photograph from that science fair had started another battle years ago.
Now a different child wanted to measure weather.
Not because of Evan.
Because weather was interesting.
That was exactly right.
I placed the application back with the others.
“Ready?”
Patricia asked.
“Yes.”
We turned off the gym lights.
May you like
The grant no longer felt like something created from grief.
It felt like something alive enough to forget where it started.
