“So, what would you do? If you could do anything?”
I look at the maps, the ancient pottery, the evidence of a civilization that existed thousands of years ago. “Maybe this. Not professionally—I don’t have the training—but funding projects like this one. Finding lost pieces of history. Making sure stories like my grandmother’s don’t disappear.”
She is watching me with an expression I can’t read. “That’s beautiful, Calvin.”
“It’s impractical.”
“So? The best things usually are.” She grins at that, and the playfulness looks good on her.
We fall into silence, but it’s comfortable, the kind of quiet that happens between people who’ve stopped performing and competing.
“Can I ask you something?” Georgia says finally. “Why does this project matter so much to you? And don’t say it’s about your grandmother. I mean, yes, obviously it is, but there’s something more, isn’t there?”
I should deflect. Change the subject. But something about the late hour, the gentle light, the way she’s looking at me with genuine curiosity instead of judgment… it makes me want to answer honestly.
“My father thinks I’m wasting my time,” I say. “He always has. When I told him about buying this site, he called it my grandmother’s ‘nonsense’ and ‘fairy tales.’ He thinks I should be in New York, focused entirely on the business.”
“And what doyouthink?”
“I think… I think I spent my whole life doing what he wanted. Being who he wanted. He groomed me to take over the company from the time I could walk. Private tutors, business classes, networking events while other kids were playing sports. My childhood was a long training program for becoming him.”
“Geez.” Georgia’s expression softens. “That sounds lonely.”
“It was. Except for my grandmother.” Here comes the familiar tightness in my chest whenever I think of her. “She was the only one who saw me as a person instead of an investment. She told me stories, taught me to cook, listened when I talked. After my mother died, she basically raised me.”
“How old were you when you lost your mother?”
“Three. I don’t really remember her. My grandmother kept her alive for me through stories. She told me about my mother’s childhood, her dreams, her love of art and history.”
“And she was from Jumayah?”
“My grandmother, yes. My mother was born in New York, but she grew up hearing the same stories I did. This place was mythical to both of us. The magical homeland we’d never seen.” I pause, feeling exposed. “When my grandmother died three years ago, I felt like I’d lost the only person who really knew me. And I made a promise at her funeral that someday I’d come here. See where she was from. Understand her stories.”
“So, this isn’t about proving your father wrong,” Georgia says quietly. “It’s about honoring her.”
“Yes. But also…” I struggle to find the words. “It’s about proving to myself that I can be something other than what he made me. That I have value beyond the company. That her stories… and her… she mattered.”
Georgia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. The simple gesture sends warmth flooding through me. “They matter,” she says firmly. “Shematters. Andyoumatter, Calvin. Not because of what you can build or buy or prove. Just because you’re you.”
“Thank you,” I manage, not sure if I believe her but sure that I want to.
She doesn’t let go of my hand, and I find I don’t want her to.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks “About why I said yes to this project?”
“Please.”
“It wasn’t just the money and working somewhere I’ve always wanted to explore. I mean, yes, the money is life-changing. But mostly… I needed to prove I still had it. The skill, the instinct, the ability to do significant work.” She looks down at our joined hands. “After Ella was born, I left academia. I told myself it was a choice, that I wanted to focus on being a mother. And I did want that. But I also… I was scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“That I couldn’t do both. That being a good mother meant giving up being a good archaeologist. That I’d have to choose.” Her voice drops. “My parents were academics. Both of them. Andthey were brilliant at their work but terrible at parenting. I grew up in libraries and museums and lecture halls. I learned three languages before I learned how to make friends. They invested in my education but forgot to invest in me.”
“That sounds familiar. Lonely, too.”
“It was. I was surrounded by knowledge but starved for affection. And I swore when I had Ella that I’d be different. That she’d know she was loved, that she’d have a childhood, that I’d be present.” She meets my eyes. “But then I wondered if I’d swung too far the other way. If I’d given up so much of myself that there was nothing left.”
“You haven’t given up anything. You’re doing both. Brilliantly.”
