Not angry.
Not yet.
“Six helicopters?”
“Yes.”
“Do you fly them?”
“No.”
“Then why own six?”
I almost smiled.
“Because they make money.”
Dad joined us.
“Wait.”
“What models?”
I told him.
Two Sikorsky S-76s.
Two Bell 429s.
One Airbus H145.
One Leonardo AW139.
His face changed.
He knew aviation just enough to understand those were not toys.
Trevor did too.
He whispered.
“Jesus.”
Vanessa looked at him.
“What?”
Trevor stared at me.
“That fleet is worth…”
I cut him off.
“Depends on age and configuration.”
Dad finished quietly.
“Tens of millions.”
Mom gripped the back of a chair.
I said nothing.
Because this was the part they never understood.
The helicopters were assets.
Not jewelry.
Not status symbols.
They produced revenue.
Executive transport contracts.
Medical standby.
Industrial inspections.
Emergency response.
Leasing.
The company had started with one aircraft.
Not six.
One.
And that story began eight years earlier.
The same year my parents decided I was failing.
I was twenty-six.
I had just finished graduate school.
Transportation systems and supply chain management.
Not glamorous.
Not to my family.
Vanessa had recently gotten engaged to Trevor.
Trevor’s father owned car dealerships.
He had money.
That was enough for Mom.
At my graduation dinner, Mom spent more time discussing Vanessa’s engagement ring than my degree.
I remember Dad saying.
“So what exactly do you do with this?”
I explained.
Fleet optimization.
Transportation networks.
Emergency logistics.
He frowned.
“So trucks?”
I said.
“Sometimes.”
He nodded as though I had confirmed my life was boring.
Then he asked Trevor about dealership margins for forty minutes.
I moved to Seattle.
Joined a regional emergency logistics firm.
Within two years, I became director of special operations.
Then a wildfire season changed everything.
Roads closed.
Thousands displaced.
Hospitals needed critical supplies moved quickly.
We contracted helicopters from third parties.
Badly.
