Chapter 15 - Ethan’s Impossible Decision
The championship ended.
The consequences did not.
On Monday morning, universities began contacting the twins.
By Tuesday, interview requests arrived from national news programs.
By Wednesday, someone offered us money for an exclusive family interview.
I declined everything.
The boys had school.
They deserved normal life.
Or whatever passed for normal after becoming the most talked-about academic siblings in the state.
Preston returned to Northbridge Academy.
Students reacted unpredictably.
Some defended him.
Some whispered “cheater.”
One wrote LIAR across his locker.
He cleaned it off himself.
When Ethan heard, he wanted to drive over.
“To do what?”
“Stand there.”
“Menacingly?”
“I have a very judgmental face.”
“You do.”
We compromised.
The twins invited Preston for pizza.
He came.
At first, he sat stiffly at our kitchen table.
Then Ethan started arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Preston said yes.
Eli said no.
Within fifteen minutes, they were yelling about fruit classification instead of family trauma.
I stood at the sink and listened.
Three boys.
Three brothers.
It felt impossible.
Then Nathan called.
Not me.
Eli.
He had been given the twins’ numbers with their permission.
Rule One: one call per week unless they initiated.
Rule Two: no guilt.
Rule Three: no money.
Rule Four: no surprises.
Nathan obeyed.
Mostly.
His first call lasted four minutes.
His second lasted seven.
On the third, Ethan refused to answer.
Nathan did not complain.
Progress.
Then a letter arrived from Oregon.
Nathan’s father.
Thomas Crowe.
The twins’ grandfather.
He apologized for not contacting them.
He claimed Nathan repeatedly said I wanted no contact.
That part was true.
I had told Nathan’s mother once, during the divorce, that I needed space from the family.
I meant months.
Nathan apparently translated that into forever.
Thomas included his phone number.
Eli called first.
Ethan waited two weeks.
Both eventually agreed to meet him.
Families, I learned, do not repair in straight lines.
Then came the impossible decision.
The National Academic Scholars Foundation offered Ethan a full summer fellowship in Washington, D.C.
Prestigious.
Selective.
Career-changing.
There was one problem.
Nathan sat on the foundation’s advisory board.
Ethan threw the letter onto the table.
“No.”
I read it.
“You earned this.”
“People will say he arranged it.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“The selection letter includes blinded review IDs.”
“Then?”
“I still don’t want it.”
Eli frowned.
“You’ve wanted that fellowship since eighth grade.”
“Not like this.”
Preston happened to be visiting.
He looked at the letter.
“My dad should resign from the board.”
Ethan laughed.
“Convenient.”
“I’m serious.”
“That makes it worse.”
“How?”
“Then people say he resigned to protect me.”
Preston rubbed his forehead.
“Our family is exhausting.”
“Yes,” Eli said. “Welcome.”
Ethan paced.
“I don’t want every achievement tied to him.”
I understood.
“You can’t control what people say.”
“I can control whether I accept.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“What would you do?”
I hated that question.
Not because I didn’t have an answer.
Because this was his life.
“I would ask whether declining hurts you more than accepting.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s not supposed to make the decision for you.”
He glared.
Then smiled reluctantly.
“Annoying.”
“I learned from you.”
That evening Nathan called.
Ethan answered.
“Did you know?”
“About the fellowship?”
“Yes.”
“I got notified this morning.”
“Did you influence it?”
“No.”
“Swear.”
“I swear.”
Ethan was silent.
Nathan continued.
“I asked the foundation counsel whether I should resign.”
Preston’s suggestion.
Ethan looked startled.
“They told me resigning now could create more appearance problems.”
“Exactly.”
“So I requested written confirmation that I had no role in selection.”
“That helps.”
“I’ll send it.”
Pause.
Then Nathan said something I did not expect.
“If you decide not to accept because my presence makes it uncomfortable, I’ll understand.”
Ethan’s face changed.
“But I hope you don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve already taken enough from you.”
Silence.
“I don’t want my name to take this too.”
Ethan stared at the floor.
Nathan continued.
“You earned it.”
My son’s eyes filled.
“Okay.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“I know.”
“I just wanted you to know.”
When the call ended, Ethan sat quietly.
The next morning, he accepted the fellowship.
His announcement included one sentence:
I will not shrink my future to accommodate someone else’s past.
It was shared tens of thousands of times.
But the best moment happened privately.
Nathan texted:
Proud of you.
Ethan stared at it.
Then typed.
Thanks, Nathan.
Not Dad.
May you like
Not yet.
But not silence either.
