Chapter 4 - The Parchment of the Past
The kitchen table was suddenly transformed into an archaeological dig site. Chloe, having finished her warm milk, leaned her chin on her hands, watching with sleepy curiosity as I began pulling the documents out of the shoebox one by one.
"Grandma Helen’s magic box," Chloe murmured softly.
"It's not magic, bug, just old junk," I whispered back, though my heart was beating a little faster.
I sorted the papers into neat piles, exactly as my analytical brain was trained to do.
Pile one: Electric and water bills from 1974. Useless. Pile two: Insurance policies for cars that had rusted into dust forty years ago. Useless. Pile three: Municipal bonds issued by a township that no longer existed. Useless.
I was halfway through the box, feeling a familiar, heavy sense of despair settling back into my chest. Of course there was no miracle hidden in an old shoebox. Real life didn’t work that way. Miracles didn't happen to accountants who got kicked out by their parents while recovering from medical debt.
Then my hand brushed against a document at the very bottom of the box.
It felt different from the others. It wasn't standard onionskin paper or cheap newsprint; it was heavy, textured, cream-colored bond paper with engraved green lettering and elaborate Victorian flourishes around the border.
I pulled it out carefully, holding it up under the warm light of the kitchen pendant lamp.
Across the top, printed in elegant, old-fashioned typography, were the words:
APPLE COMPUTER INC. INCORPORATED UNDER THE LAWS OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA
I froze.
My breath caught in my throat. My eyes scanned the certificate, reading the fine print.
This certifies that Arthur Vance is the owner of...
I counted the numbers.
...One Hundred (100) Fully Paid and Non-Assessable Shares of the Common Stock of Apple Computer, Inc.
Stapled to the back of the certificate was a small, yellowed slip of paper bearing my grandfather’s neat, meticulous handwriting, dated December 1980:
Bought 100 shares at IPO. Cost: $400. Told Arthur it was a gamble on plastic toys. Let’s see who laughs last.
I stared at the paper. My hands began to shake—not a slight tremor, but a violent, uncontrollable shivering that made the parchment rustle loudly in the quiet kitchen.
"What is it?" Helen asked, leaning forward, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied my pale face. "Did you find a parking ticket from 1982?"
"Grandma..." I choked out, my voice barely a whisper. "Do you know what this is?"
"It’s an old stock certificate for some computer company your grandfather bought shares in back when personal computers looked like microwave ovens," Helen said dismissively. "Probably worth twenty bucks at a flea market as a retro decoration."
"No," I breathed, my professional training kicking in with terrifying speed. "No, Grandma. You don't understand."
I grabbed my smartphone off the table, my fingers fumbling against the screen as I opened the web browser.
"Apple Computer went public in December 1980," I muttered, my mind racing through calculations and historical data I knew by heart from financial history modules. "One hundred shares at the IPO price... but Grandpa bought it before the splits."
I began typing frantically into search bars, cross-referencing corporate history, stock splits, and historical valuations.
Apple stock splits: 1987: 2-for-1 2000: 2-for-1 2005: 2-for-1 2014: 7-for-1 2020: 4-for-1
I tapped the calculator app on my phone.
100 shares multiplied by 2... then by 2... then by 2... then by 7... then by 4.
I stared at the final number appearing on my screen.
22,400 shares.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I pulled up Apple's current stock price, which hovered around a robust, steady valuation reflecting decades of unprecedented technological dominance.
22,400 shares multiplied by the current trading price per share.
I stared at the total on my screen. I wiped my eyes, convinced I had added too many zeros, and recalculated it three more times.
The number remained stubbornly, astonishingly, impossibly the same.
Millions.
Multi-millions of dollars.
My breath hitched. The kitchen seemed to spin around me. I dropped the phone onto the wooden table with a sharp clatter and stared blankly at my grandmother.
Helen raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Well? Are we rich enough to buy a loaf of bread, or is it just enough for a cup of coffee?"
"Grandma," I whispered, tears finally streaming down my face—not of sadness, but of pure, unadulterated shock. "We aren't buying coffee. We could buy this entire neighborhood."
May you like
Helen stared at me for a long, silent beat. Then, slowly, a grim, triumphant smile spread across her wrinkled face—a smile that looked so terrifyingly like my own realization of vengeance that I almost laughed out loud.
"Arthur," Helen murmured, shaking her head as she looked down at the paper. "You old bastard. You really did it."
