Happy Father's Day. I hope this letter finds you in good health, or as good as can be expected given your condition. I wanted to take this opportunity to express my gratitude for everything you've built and everything you've taught me about ambition, enterprise, and the importance of legacy.
Of course, I can't help but notice that Blutarch will likely send you some simpering note full of false sentiment and transparent attempts to position himself as your favorite. I trust you see through his schemes as clearly as I do. He's always been the weaker of us, Father, more interested in manipulation than honest work. I, on the other hand, have always strived to honor your example through action rather than empty words.
I hope you know which son truly values what you've built.
Your devoted son, Redmond
Happy Father's Day. I trust you're being well cared for, though I worry the staff may not be attending to your needs with the diligence you deserve. Perhaps I should visit more often to ensure your comfort.
I wanted to write and acknowledge all you've accomplished, the empire you built from nothing, the legacy you've created. It's a legacy I intend to honor and preserve, unlike certain brothers of mine who seem more interested in reckless ambition than careful stewardship. Redmond has always been impulsive, Father. You know this. He acts without thinking, charges forward without strategy. I've always been the thoughtful one, the one who plans, who considers consequences.
I hope that on this day, you reflect on which of your sons has truly inherited your wisdom.
Your respectful son, Blutarch
What a miserable invention. A manufactured holiday designed to force sentiment where none exists, to dress up obligation in the language of affection. As if one designated day of performative gratitude could paper over a lifetime of disappointment.
I received your letters, Redmond. Blutarch. Both of you, right on schedule, like clockwork. Both of you with your transparent little performances—Happy Father's Day, here's why my brother is terrible, please love me more than him. Do you think I'm senile? Do you think I can't see exactly what you're doing?
You're not honoring me. You're positioning yourselves. You're not expressing gratitude, you're lobbying for inheritance. Every word drips with calculation. Every sentence is a bid for favor. You don't love me. You love what I'm leaving behind, and you're terrified the other one will get more of it.
And the worst part? You're not even good at manipulation. You're clumsy. Obvious. I can see every move you're making three steps before you make it, and it's embarrassing. I raised you to be sharks, and instead I got minnows.
Gray didn't write. Of course he didn't. At least he's honest about his contempt. At least he doesn't insult me with false sentiment. There's a certain dignity in his silence that neither of you could muster if you tried.
Father's Day. What a joke. A day to celebrate fatherhood, as if I have anything to celebrate. A day to reflect on my sons: one ambitious fool, one scheming fool, and one mistake I don't acknowledge. This is what I built my empire for. This is what I'm leaving behind.
I don't want your letters. I don't want your performances. I don't want your hollow gratitude on a day that means nothing.
But you'll send them anyway, won't you? Because you can't help yourselves. Because you're desperate. Because even now, even as I'm dying, you're still fighting over scraps like dogs.
Happy Father's Day to me.
