Chapter 26 - THE REINDEER IN THE GARAGE
Josephine was twenty-eight when she found the retro rocking reindeer in my garage.
She was helping me move tools.
“Why do you still have this?”
“You painted it.”
“I was eighteen.”
“Seventeen.”
“Same.”
She ran a hand over the purple stars.
“Do you still think about the first one?”
“Sometimes.”
“You threw it really hard?”
“Yes.”
“Uncle Silas says you nearly broke his face.”
“He exaggerates.”
“You admit hitting him.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Progress.”
She had become an industrial designer.
Not Northstar.
Not engineering.
Her own field.
She designed adaptive playground equipment.
Children climbed things she drew.
I loved that.
She owned diversified trust assets.
No family-company obligation.
She used some to start her studio.
Loan documented.
Independent board.
No free blank check.
She complained about governance.
I said:
“Good.”
Then she asked:
“Do you regret Christmas?”
I thought.
“The throw, yes.”
“The sentence?”
“My Christmas gift?”
“Yes.”
“I regret thinking consequences were mine to give.”
She nodded.
“What don’t you regret?”
May you like
“Leaving.”
That answer stayed.
