I arrived at Second Presbyterian Church wearing the dark suit my late wife Nadine bought me fifteen years ago, back when she still believed I looked distinguished in it. The parking lot was packed with Mercedes-Benzes and BMWs gleaming in the late morning sun, their paint jobs probably worth more than most people’s annual salaries. I tucked my Ford F-150 into a space near the back corner, between a silver Lexus and a white Range Rover, both spotless and expensive.
The contrast wasn’t lost on me—my working man’s truck surrounded by status symbols. But I’d earned the right to be here. This was my grandson’s baptism, and I’d written a check for thirty-five thousand dollars to make this day possible.
Every cent of it. The venue, the catering, that eight-hundred-dollar christening gown made of imported Irish linen that Jillian had insisted was “absolutely necessary.”
I’m Hector Wallace, seventy-two years old, and I’ve spent the last four decades building Wallace Auto Repair from a single-bay garage in Indianapolis into five locations across the metropolitan area. I’m not wealthy—not by the standards of the people gathering inside this church—but I’m comfortable.
Comfortable enough to write checks that would make most people’s eyes water. Comfortable enough to want the best for my only daughter and my first grandchild. The church itself was impressive—all Gothic stone and stained glass, the kind of place where Indianapolis society held their important ceremonies.
As I walked toward the entrance, I could see guests arriving in their designer clothes, air-kissing and laughing with the easy confidence of people who’d never worried about making rent or keeping the lights on. I didn’t recognize a single face. Not one.
These weren’t family members or old friends. These were Colin’s people—my son-in-law’s business associates, his investors, whatever that meant. He called himself a “financial consultant,” though I’d never quite understood what he actually did besides wear expensive suits and talk about opportunities.
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