My name is Lucian Carter. At thirty-seven, I’ve established a life in Seattle, a fortress of steel and glass that protects me from a tragic history.
To understand who I am, we must return to Franklin, Pennsylvania—a town whose wet nights still evoke memories of my childhood.
Franklin in the 1980s resembled a Rockwell painting, with tree-lined avenues and warm wooden homes. Our home was unique, an old mansion that echoed my mother Eleanor’s laughter. She was my light, teaching me how to make paper cranes, tell stories with sunsets, and discover wonder in the midst of a cruel world. My most vivid recollections are of her in the sunlit kitchen, baking cookies, spinning fairy stories, and singing lullabies, which still linger in my heart.
My father, James Carter, the founder of Carter Enterprises, was frequently away, yet he always returned with presents or crushing hugs that made me feel a part of his world. That world came to an end when I was eight years old. My mother died from breast cancer within a year. Her final words: “Be strong, Lucian.” “I’ll always be in your heart”—I’m still with you.
Her funeral was a whirl of rain, black umbrellas, and desolation. My father, once a titan, trembled when holding me. It was the last time I really felt close to him. After that, he went to work, drowning his pain in billion-dollar transactions. I strolled our frigid mansion like a ghost, clutching her scarf, diary, and the paper cranes we made together.
When I was ten, Vivien arrived with her two children, Khloe and Elias.
She stormed in like a conqueror, rearranging the furnishings and removing my mother’s presence. Khloe insulted me as a “orphan,” Elias physically abused me, and Vivien arranged it all with poisoned sweetness. My father considered her “a good person.” To me, she was the enemy.
Elias destroyed my final paper crane when I was twelve years old. I battled him, only to get slapped by Vivien. My father told me to apologize. I never did. I closed myself in my room and fantasized about escape.
At 13, I discovered my mother’s diary. Her words became my lifeline: never allow anyone to make you doubt your worth. I clung to the promise. In high school, I thrived quietly, knowing that education was the route out. At sixteen, my father declared me heir, which enraged Vivien, who advocated for Elias instead.
At the age of seventeen, a Carnegie Mellon scholarship saved my life. I packed my mother’s diary and a worn paper crane, leaving Franklin behind. College was about survival—working in coffee shops and reconnecting. I studied business not just to impress my father, but also to demonstrate my ability to start my own firm.
My father seldom called. Vivien never did. Their disappearance became a distant sound. I got second place in a housing project pitch competition during my sophomore year. For the first time, I felt my full potential. Vivien later sent a letter stating that James feels you should work at Carter Enterprises. I am not convinced you are capable. I shredded it to pieces.
At graduation, I stood alone.
My father mailed me a check that I never cashed. I moved west to Seattle. But before I could start over, my father called: “Lucian, I need you. Carter Enterprises needs you.” Against my inclinations, I returned.
Franklin hadn’t changed. Vivien’s cold smile, Elias’s smugness, Khloe’s disdain. At work, I was sidelined, given menial tasks while Vivien and Elias ran the company into soulless luxury projects. The breaking point came when a plan required demolishing a low-income neighborhood. I offered a revitalization alternative. My father dismissed me as naive. Elias smirked. Vivien applauded his cruelty. I walked out.
Confiding in my college friend Sarah, I realized I didn’t need their approval. The next morning, I told my father I was leaving. I found him slumped over, clutching my mother’s photo. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. It was too late. I left Franklin at dawn.
In Seattle, I started small with Green Horizon, a firm focused on community housing. My boss, Harold Christy, encouraged me: “You’ve got vision, Lucian.” Three years later, I opened my first community complex, filled with families and children. I felt my mother’s smile that day.
Then came the call: my father had di:ed. At the funeral, Vivien blocked me. “You are no longer family,” she hissed. I stood my ground. Later, a nurse handed me an envelope—my father’s true will and recordings exposing Vivien’s plot to sell the company illegally.
Armed with evidence, I confronted them at the lawyer’s office. “I am James Carter’s lawful successor. I’ve also got evidence of corporate espionage.” Their features were robbed of color. I proposed an agreement: leave the house, resign from the company, and never return. They accepted.
I never saw them again. I converted my childhood home into a community center to remember my mother. As CEO of Carter Enterprises, I revived my father’s idea of developing communities, not just profits.
My narrative is not about wealth, but about regaining a legacy. The ultimate inheritance was never money, but rather the principles my parents instilled in me: resilience, generosity, and the notion that even in a cruel world, you can create something wonderful.
