My name is Henry Carter. I’m seventy-two years old.
For nearly four decades, I ran a construction company in Richmond. I started with two employees, an old pickup truck, and more determination than money. Over the years, I turned that little operation into a respected commercial construction firm.
In 2019, I finally sold the company.
The sale was worth far more than most people realized.
Including my own son, David.
I never told my family exactly how much money I had.
I chose to live simply because I wanted to know something important:
Would people love Henry Carter—or would they love what Henry Carter could give them?
My wife, Margaret, used to worry about that.
Before she passed away, she once looked at me across our kitchen table and asked, “Do you really think they’ll still know how to love you when they can’t see the money anymore?”
I smiled and assured her they would.
Seven years after her death, I discovered that Margaret had been right to worry.
PART 1: THE EMPTY PLATE