At home, Marcus behaved as if the hospital moment had been harmless enthusiasm. He bought a wooden sign for Noah's room shaped like the store logo. When I asked what he planned for the girls, he said they could work there if they wanted. His distinction was clear: the business would belong to their brother, while they could earn permission to serve it.

June stopped coming in after school. She claimed she had college applications, but I found her employee key on the kitchen counter. Tessa still worked Saturdays and became painfully formal with her father. Mae removed the miniature storefront she had built from the shop window. Ruby asked whether girls were allowed to own screwdrivers. Every consequence was small enough for Marcus to dismiss separately, yet together they formed a verdict.

I pulled my mother's green dress from the closet. Its elbows were shiny and one pocket still held a chalk nub. She had worn it while hemming prom gowns, repairing work pants, and negotiating the lease on her shop. After she died, I kept it hidden because putting it on felt too much like pretending to be her. That evening I wore it to review our company documents.

The store was not simply a male family heirloom. Marcus owned sixty percent through his father's transfer, while I owned forty percent purchased with money from my mother's shop. Our operating agreement required both owners to approve any succession plan.

At breakfast, I placed the agreement beside Marcus's coffee. I told him Noah would not be named heir by nursery decoration. We would evaluate every child by interest, ability, and consent when the time came. Marcus said I was turning one proud remark into a legal battle. I said his remark had already changed how four children saw their place in our family. If he wanted me to stay beside him in the store and the marriage, he had to stop calling exclusion a tradition. He read the highlighted clause twice, then left for work without finishing his coffee.