I’m supposed to take care of his sister. I’m supposed to make her happy. And I’m too ashamed to let him know that I’ve been failing miserably.
The pressure of it all is debilitating.
So, instead, I force a smile and look Dad in the eyes. “Work is running me ragged. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”
Dad’s smile gets bigger, wrinkling his eyes. “Good. You’re working so hard. You should be proud of yourself.”
“Hmm.” I nod without too much conviction.
“It may be hard, but that’s what the man of the family does,” Dad continues. “They work real jobs that provide for their families.”
“Ubisoft was a real job, Dad,” I mutter under my breath.
Neither he nor Mom ever considered my work in the video game industry as a ‘real job’.
Despite the healthy paychecks.
But software engineering pays more, and despite me doing almost the same thing, my work at True Keys is more legitimate in their eyes.
They’re the ones who pushed me for the change. And Dad is right—the money I make at this startup is serious. We’re already starting to consider finding a bigger home, and for the first timein years, I’m not constantly worrying about paving the way for our boys’ futures.
Rachel provides just as much as I do. In fact, we’re a pretty even split. My yearly bonus is what takes me over the top.
That bonus alone is what allows my father to see me as the true provider he has drilled me to be.
“Maybe your generation considers that a real job,” Dad says with a roll of his eyes.
I freeze in horror. I didn’t mean him to hear what I’d whispered under my breath.
“But it doesn’t matter,” he adds. “The job you have now is perfect.”
Perfectlysuffocating.
“Dinner’s almost ready!” Mom calls out from the kitchen.
Dad’s eyes light up and he stands before Mom’s sentence is finished. While I stand, I spy Rachel heading towards the basement to find the boys.
Within a minute, the six of us are sitting at the dinner table with a steaming plate of Mom’s signaturepâté chinois. I turn my attention to Rachel. She’s looking down at her plate with deep fondness in her eyes.
I know she misses her own mother’spâté chinois.
“Thank you, Mom, this is delicious,” I say after swallowing my first juicy, beefy bite.
Mom smiles at me from across the table. She’s wearing a long pink head scarf that drapes over her shoulder. Every time I get to see her like this is a blessing.
It wasn’t that long ago that we were fearing for her life.
“Mom, I don’t like the corn,” Cayce frets, pushing at the creamed corn on his plate with his fork.
“I’ll eat yours,” Corey volunteers.
Before he has a chance to steal a bite from his twin brother, my mother grabs his wrist.
“Nuh-huh,” she chides, patting Corey’s head and mussing his straight black hair. “Cayce needs to eat his own corn. There’s plenty leftover if you want more, honey.”
“Cayce doesn’t have to eat the corn if he doesn’t want to.” Though Rachel is sitting straight to my left, her voice sounds subdued.
Mom raises her eyebrows. “They’re going to grow up picky if you keep catering to their whims.”
