At ninety years old, a man has little to lose by telling the truth. My name is Mr. Hutchins. For seven decades, I built one of the largest grocery chains in Texas. I started with a tiny corner shop after the war, when a loaf of bread cost a nickel and neighbors left their doors unlocked. By the time I hit eighty, my stores stretched across five states. People called me the “Bread King of the South.”
But here’s the truth that moneyed men rarely admit: wealth doesn’t keep you warm at night. Power doesn’t hold your hand when the doctor says “cancer.” And success? It doesn’t laugh at your bad jokes over breakfast. My wife died in 1992. We never had children. And one evening, sitting alone in my cavernous 15,000-square-foot house, I realized the one thing I’d never solved—who deserved my fortune when I was gone.
It wouldn’t be lawyers or directors looking for their cut. I wanted someone real. Someone who valued hard work and kindness, even when no one was watching. But how do you find a person like that?
Continue reading next page…