“Something about the Henderson materials. He wasn’t pleased with your email response.”
Of course he wasn’t. Agreement without enthusiasm is still a form of defiance in Robert Thompson’s world.
“I have a client call at one-thirty,” I say, checking my watch. “Should run at least forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll let him know you’re unavailable until after two-fifteen.” Angela nods, already composing the email in her head. “The Walt team requested your input on their presentation draft. Conference Room B if you need somewhere to hide—I mean, work—afterward.”
“You’re getting a raise,” I tell her, only half-joking.
“You said that yesterday.” She adjusts her glasses. “Yet my bank account remains unchanged.”
“I promise you, Angela,” I say as the elevator doors open and I step inside. “A big fat one, just you wait and see.”
Back in my office, I dial into the client call two minutes early before opening the Henderson plans on my second monitor. When the client asks about the material upgrades, I present them as exciting enhancements rather than my father’s demands.
“We believe these alternatives better showcase the building’s architectural significance,” I say, the words smooth. “The additional cost is minimal, considering the dramatic improvement in aesthetic impact.”
They agree, of course—they always do. My father may be impossible, but his instincts for what impresses clients are rarely wrong, and that’s the most frustrating part. His interference often improves the final product, even as it undermines my authority and vision. And even if he’s an asshole when doing so.
Angela’s text arrives right on schedule. INCOMING. Elevator. Third floor.
I thank the clients, promise follow-up documents by tomorrow, log off, and grab my portfolio again. This time I make it to Conference Room B moments before I hear my father’s footsteps approach my office door.
Through the glass walls, I watch him pause, speak briefly to Angela, then check his watch with a frown before continuing down the hall toward his corner office.
I exhale slowly, nodding absently at whatever the Walt team is discussing. Another skirmish avoided in the endless war of passive resistance.
The afternoon continues this way. I extend meetings by asking thoughtful questions. I take the service elevator instead of the main one. I time my bathroom breaks for when I know he’s on scheduled calls.
By five o’clock, I’ve navigated the entire day without a single face-to-face interaction with my father, despite working in the same building, on the same projects, for the same company that bears our shared name. I consider this a victory as I pack my laptop and the Henderson files into my briefcase fifteen minutes earlier than usual.
Angela gives me a knowing look as I pass her desk. “Escaping?”
“Yup. Mission accomplished.”
“Until tomorrow,” she says, her tone somewhere between sympathy and amusement.
“Until tomorrow,” I agree. “Like I said, big fat raise.”
She laughs.
The elevator carries me away from the Thompson legacy, if only temporarily. Outside, Chicago’s early evening light bathes the sidewalks in gold. I loosen my tie slightly, feeling the day’s tension begin to uncoil from my shoulders.
I didn’t argue with my father. I didn’t disappoint him to his face. I didn’t have to hear how my choices never quite measure up to Thompson standards.
Today is a good day.
The apartment door closes behind me, sealing off the rest of the world. I breathe in the scent of home—Harley’s vanilla candle still lingering from yesterday, the faint trace of coffee from this morning, the absence of my father’s cologne. Here, I love our mismatched furniture, Harley’s colorful throw pillows, and the wall of photos where we’re actually laughing.
I drop my keys into the ceramic bowl Harley made in that pottery class last winter. It’s lopsided and the glaze is uneven; my mother would call it “charmingly amateur” with that tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, but I call it perfect.
The Thai food I promised will have to wait. After a day of strategic retreats and calculated responses, I need to create something with my own hands.
I roll up my sleeves and open the refrigerator, surveying our options. Chicken breasts, green bell peppers, pre-diced onions, those mushrooms Harley loves. I pull them out, arranging the ingredients on the counter.
The knife feels right in my hand as I slice the chicken into thin strips. My tie and jacket hang over a kitchen chair, my feet comfortable in worn socks against the hardwood floor. Witheach cut, another layer of Thompson Architectural Group falls away. Slice. There goes the Henderson material upgrades. Chop. Avoiding my father. Mince. My mother’s unanswered calls.
I’m halfway through dicing onions when the knocking starts. I freeze, knife suspended over the cutting board. Only one person knocks that way, like they’re announcing themselves rather than requesting entry.
