The meeting with his broker was quick and solemn. The man assured him the economy would probably rebound—“This is America, after all!”—if he’d just let things be. He understood that the hit was hard—more than 70 percent of his savings lost—but, again, America had had recessions before. Lazarus nodded easily, like a man in trance. None of the words had reassured him of anything, except that he would never work and save like that again. His hope had vanished. His faith was gone. The word of his broker’s that rang in his consciousness was probably. That was enough to seal his resolve to go in another direction, live a different life. And that’s what Lazarus did.

He sat in his office in the dark for the next three days. He didn’t bathe, he didn’t eat, he didn’t say a word. He simply pondered why he’d spent his life working like a mule. Was he trying to prove something to himself? To his father? His Grandfather? His mother had warned against it, saying, “One day, son, when you have your family, spend time with them. Don’t let them long for you.” He hadn’t really understood what she’d meant. His father’s contradictory words had taken deeper root: “A man who can’t provide for his family is worse than an infidel.” He didn’t know what an infidel was, but it sounded bad enough, so, at 17, he prepared to sacrifice everything in exchange for comfort and security.

And he did. But now he hated himself for it. His father never said it could slip away overnight. He never said a man could wake one morning and all his efforts be gone. That’s how Lazarus felt. That everything he’d ever worked for had suddenly disappeared. His pride had no strength; his ego mocked him in flight. If not for his kids, he probably would’ve walked out the front door and never looked back. But he’d never leave his kids. That was non-negotiable. He adored them like Christ adored the church. But he’d teach them something different now, something contradictory to the way they’d once lived. It would be abrupt, he knew, and certainly they wouldn’t prefer it, but it was right. And if it wasn’t, it was what Lazarus now believed, so it was what the family would do.

He didn’t worry. Lazarus IV, called Quad, and Lizzie worshipped their father. The boy was seven, the girl five. They especially enjoyed when he tickled them until they peed. That was the sign of his absolute adoration—if he could persist until their laughter left them hoarse and yellowy wet. Tired or not, he played the game whenever the children desired, and they felt enormously blessed to have such a remarkably committed daddy. Grown now, and having missed their father for years, they were more pissed than ever.