One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he sat in his favorite chair, skimming through the latest village council minutes. The room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock and the distant hum of traffic outside. His wife shuffled in, her movements slower than they once were. Age had begun to wear on her, and she now spent much of her time resting at home.
Carrying a tray with a cup of tea, she approached him. “Honey,” she said with a smile, “my eldest daughter’s son has graduated from law school.” She held out her tablet, showing a proud photo of their daughter and grandson, beaming in graduation attire.
He adjusted his reading glasses, glancing at the image. “Hmm,” he muttered, nodding absentmindedly as he turned his attention back to the council minutes.
His wife wasn’t deterred by his distraction. “Do you remember,” she began, a touch of nostalgia in her voice, “when you proposed to me? You had just graduated from law school yourself. You said I was as beautiful as a marigold.”
He squinted in thought. “I think so. But honestly, I don’t remember it clearly.”
She chuckled softly. “The day after our wedding, I remember walking with you through the village, meeting people, listening to them, making speeches, and promising all sorts of things. You were following in your father’s footsteps as a politician, even then.”
He set the council minutes down and looked at her. “Do you ever regret being the wife of a second-generation politician?”
Her smile widened, and she let out a knowing laugh. “Hehe, I wonder sometimes.”
He sipped the tea she had made, the rich aroma soothing him. “You know,” he said, his tone shifting, “I’ve been thinking lately. If someone who isn’t born into politics suddenly decides to get involved, they find themselves in a lot of trouble.”
“Oh?” she replied, intrigued. “I’d love to hear more about that.”
He turned to face her fully, his expression serious, a habit he had formed in his younger years when discussing matters of importance. “Take the case of former President Trump,” he began. “The special counsel recently made it clear that he won’t be exempt from liability for the election scandal he was allegedly involved in. The argument is that it was in his private interest, not his public duty.”
“I saw that on the news,” she said, nodding.
“Think about it,” he continued. “Even the president, before taking office, is just a private citizen. They are elected because of their appeal as a private individual, but once in office, they become a public figure.”
“That’s true,” she agreed. “That’s the essence of democracy.”
“But here’s where it gets murky,” he added, leaning forward. “How do we know when a public figure’s actions are in their official capacity or their private interest? It’s a fine line, one that’s constantly debated.”
“And what’s your take?” she asked.
“Well,” he paused, gathering his thoughts. “In the case of hereditary politicians, like myself, that line is clearer. We’re born into the public eye. Our private lives are limited from the start. We grow up knowing we’ll serve the public in some way.”
“But does that make someone happy?” she asked, her voice soft.
“For most, it’s a life of despair,” he admitted, his voice heavy with memories. “That’s why I refused to take the draft deferment and served in Vietnam.”
“You survived,” she said quietly, placing a hand on his knee.
“I did,” he said, staring into the half-empty cup of tea. “But many of my comrades didn’t. I came back because I was the son of a local politician, with doors open to me that weren’t for others.”
He fell silent, his thoughts drifting back to those days, as the weight of both privilege and responsibility pressed on his shoulders.
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