His face reddens. His broad shoulders stiffen visibly. “I’m the one paying your bills. I deserved to know before the damned registrar.”
“I knew you’d only try to talk me out of it.”
“Damn right I would!” He waves his arm about. “I don’t want my son throwing his life away to work in a kitchen, chopping onions for a living. Do you have any idea how much a cook makes?”
“It’s not about the money.”
He laughs bitterly, as if I’m a fool. “Everything’s about the money eventually. You’ll discover that in about five years when you’re broke and living in a dump with cockroaches. Then you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I tell him vehemently. “I’ll make it work.”
I want desperately to convince him that I can do it, even though, when I came here, I was certain that I’d never get his blessing. I had come prepared to accept that I’d have to make my own way, that he’d never support me or believe in me.
“I’m confident that I’ll be more successful doing something I love,” I try to explain. “Something I’m passionate about. Can you try to understand that?”
“Oh, for the love of God. You sound like an infant! The world doesn’t work that way. And you’ll get nowhere without my support.”
“Financial support, you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. He just stares at me with those black, beady eyes.
“Then give it to me,” I say, point blank. “Give me a chance to prove myself. Fund my education. Send me to Europe to learn from the best, and I swear, Dad, I’ll make you proud. I’ll come home and make a name for myself. I’ll open the best restaurant in the city.”
My father’s face hardens. His expression turns cold as stone. “You don’t know the first damn thing about opening a business or running a restaurant. You don’t know that it takes a lot more than knowing how to cook a decent steak. Frankly, it’s beneath you.”
My throat tightens, but I stand my ground. “It’s beneathyou, you mean. You want me in a suit, carrying a briefcase. Or maybe a surgeon’s scrubs would have been good enough. But not much else.”
We stare at each other intensely, and it takes every measure of courage and resolve I can muster to not look away.
“Is this about that girl?” he asks callously. “The plumber’s daughter.”
My hackles rise. “Stop calling her that.”
“Sienna, then. Did she put these dreams in your head? Is she the one who made you think it was a good idea to quit law school?”
“No,” I firmly reply. “I wanted to be a chef long before I met her.”
“But you knew it wasn’t an actualcareeroption.” He speaks with loathing and malice. “You always knew a law degree was the best path for you.”
“No, Dad, I never thought that.Youthought it was the right path for me, and I just didn’t want to fight you. I wanted to make you happy.”
As I speak the words, I hear traces of affection in my voice, a weakness.
He inclines his head, and something in his expression softens. “Youdid, son. Youdidmake me happy. I was never more proud than I was on the day you received the acceptance letter from the law school.” He sets his glass down on the desk, approaches me, and rests both hands on my shoulders. He looks me straight in the eye, and something inside me trembles. “You went through a bad time in high school,” he says, “and it was rough, especially on your mother, but you came through it, and you were better for it.”
My eyebrows pull together slightly, and I’m not sure what to say next. All I can do is stare at the patterned carpet because I can’t seem to meet my father’s gaze.
Then I realize that this has always been his boundless talent. He holds back love and doles out anger and displeasure. Then he throws you a crumb of praise, and you feel grateful for it. More than grateful. A kind word from him is like being touched by the hand of God. It’s enough to make you weep.
My father is a master of manipulation.
And screw him for bringing Mom into this.
I lift my gaze. “I can’t do it, Dad. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be a lawyer.”
He lowers his hands to his sides. For a few seconds, he watches me, wordlessly but with a scorching intensity that makes me want to flee the room. It’s all I can do to take a breath and wait for him to respond.
“You’ll regret this.” His voice is low and threatening. “One day, and probably sooner than you think, you’ll realize this was the biggest mistake of your life. When that day comes, don’t come crying to me.”
