Chapter 4 - The Grandfather I Barely Remembered
I was only seven, so most of what I knew about my grandfather came from stories.
He had been Arthur Cole.
People in town still talked about him like he had built half the valley, which wasn’t far from the truth. Resorts, land partnerships, timber rights, conservation deals, and charitable foundations—his name was attached to everything old money in Aspen liked to touch.
But the stories I loved weren’t about business.
They were about small things.
How he always saved the first cinnamon roll for me.
How he kept peppermints in his coat pocket.
How he hated seeing children left out of adult rooms.
Dad said Grandpa Arthur was the only person in the family who never made me feel like I had to earn my place.
Gene, on the other hand, had started keeping score the day I was born.
Not openly at first.
In families like ours, cruelty liked to dress well.
It arrived as little comments.
“She doesn’t look like a Cole.”
“She’s awfully quiet.”
“She’s too sensitive.”
“Brandon, you let that child cling to you too much.”
Then, when I got older:
“She’s spoiled.”
“She’s dramatic.”
“She needs discipline.”
And the one Dad never forgave:
“She isn’t the child your father would have chosen to carry this family.”
The irony was brutal.
May you like
Because Grandpa Arthur had chosen me.
We just didn’t know how completely until that Christmas morning.
