CHAPTER 8
Six months after the disastrous wedding, the autumn sun shone bright and golden over the campus of the University of Chicago.
Jackson sat across from me at an outdoor café table, wearing a simple wool sweater and holding a binder filled with financial research papers.
He had resigned from his cushy vice-president position at Whitmore Capital, choosing instead to start from the absolute bottom at an independent financial literacy non-profit in the city.
He lived in a modest one-bedroom apartment in Lincoln Park, paying his own rent, driving his father's old restored sedan, and rebuilding his life with quiet, humble dignity.
"How is the new program going, Jackson?" I asked, taking a sip of my morning espresso while looking at his energetic, clear expression.
"It's incredible, Mom," Jackson smiled genuinely, his eyes shining with a sense of purpose I hadn't seen in him for years. "We helped thirty small business owners secure low-interest development loans this week alone."
"Your father would be immensely proud of you," I said softly, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.
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"I didn't understand what Dad meant when he talked about building a legacy, Mom," Jackson admitted, looking at me with deep gratitude. "I thought it meant living in luxury, but now I know it means building something that actually helps people stand on their own feet."
"You learned the hard way, son," I smiled, feeling a deep, comforting warmth settling into my heart. "But you learned."
