Eternal Ephemerals

Old wealth

The party was in full swing by the time he arrived. The small, dimly lit off-campus apartment was packed with students, all riding the high of just-finished exams and the anticipation of a long holiday break. Someone had hooked up speakers to blast old playlists from their university years, and there was a low, constant hum of laughter and chatter as people talked over the music.

He wove his way through the crowded living room, dodging elbows and barely avoiding a spilled drink on the floor. It was the usual mix of classmates and acquaintances—people he knew well enough to greet but not well enough to stay in touch with once they graduated. Still, it felt good to be here, to be among familiar faces for one last hurrah before everyone went their separate ways for the break.

He was in the kitchen grabbing a soda when Nishant, one of his closer friends, appeared out of nowhere, grinning wide and clearly a bit tipsy.

"There he is!" Nishant said, clapping him on the back. "The man himself."

He laughed, shaking his head. "How many drinks have you had?"

"Not enough." Nishant took a sip from his red cup, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You know, I've been thinking about it. You give off this whole old wealth vibe, you know that?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"Yeah, seriously. Generational wealth. Like, I don't know, you've got that calm, collected thing going on. Never flashy. Never loud or obnoxious." Nishant shrugged, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Rich people energy, you know?"

Another friend nearby overheard and chimed in, laughing. "Totally! He's got that whole 'doesn't need to prove anything' vibe."

The comments were meant to be compliments, maybe even admiration, but they left him feeling strangely hollow. He managed a half-smile, half-shrug, and said something vague about having "great parents." But deep down, the words got under his skin.

What did "old wealth" even mean? He thought about it as he leaned against the kitchen counter, watching the party unfold around him. His friends probably meant it as a stereotype—a casual assumption about his upbringing based on his demeanor. They thought wealth made a person quiet, composed, self-assured. But that wasn't wealth. Not really.

He looked down at the soda can in his hand, the condensation wetting his fingers. What they didn't know—what no one at this party knew—was the real story. The house he had grown up in, a small place on the edge of town with thin walls and a leaky roof that his father had fixed a dozen times by hand. They didn't know how his grandfather had started from nothing, working himself raw to earn every penny, or how he'd poured years of effort into a small plot of land that was more dust and stone than soil.

His grandfather had died young, leaving that modest land as the only inheritance. But there had been debts, endless debts. He remembered the stories his mother told him about how his father, barely out of school himself, had worked tirelessly to pay them off, all while raising a family. It wasn't until recently—just the past ten years, really—that they'd begun to breathe a little easier. It was only ten years ago that they'd finally built a proper home, moving out of the cramped, damp house where they'd all lived together.

He wondered if they would still call it "old wealth" if they knew about the nights his father had come home late from work, too exhausted to speak. Or the years his mother had spent meticulously budgeting every cent to make sure they had enough.

No, he wasn't from generational wealth. But maybe, in a way, Nishant had a point.

He'd been raised in a kind of wealth that had nothing to do with money. It was the wealth of stories told late at night when the power went out and they sat in the dark together. The wealth of his father's unbreakable work ethic and his mother's quiet strength. It was the wealth of encouragement, of being told that he could do anything, be anything, even when finances were tight and opportunities seemed scarce.

He thought about how his parents had always supported him, even when it wasn't practical. When he had wanted to take up art in high school, even though they could barely afford the supplies, they'd found a way. When he had chosen to study something impractical by most people's standards, his mother had simply smiled and said, "You'll make it work."

What was old wealth compared to that?

He knew why his friends thought what they did. He liked simple things. He didn't feel the need to show off. He was calm and composed because that's what had been modeled for him. His father had always been the type to sit back and observe before speaking, and his mother had taught him that a quiet strength could move mountains. But was that "rich people energy"? Or was it just the wealth of character that had been passed down to him?

He didn't bother trying to convince them otherwise. There was no point. People saw what they wanted to see, and that was fine. He knew where he came from, knew that wealth had many forms, and the truest wealth was the kind that could never be spent or stolen.

As the night wore on, the party began to thin out, and he found himself standing alone near the kitchen window, looking out at the city lights. The conversations and laughter behind him blurred into white noise.

Maybe he was "old wealth" in the best sense of the term. Not old money, but the wealth of values and morals that grounded him. The wealth of knowing who he was and where he came from. The wealth of understanding that his worth wasn't defined by what was in his bank account but by what was in his heart and mind.

So what if people misunderstood? That wasn't his burden to carry. He'd grown up rich in ways they could never understand.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Nishant again, still grinning, still tipsy. "Hey, man. You good?"

He smiled, genuinely this time. "Yeah. I'm good."

He meant it. He really did.