The concierge called again. “He says he’s your father.”
“He is,” I said. “He is not invited.”
In the background, Dad shouted my name. Then came a sharp crack—not glass breaking, but knuckles slamming the security door hard enough to rattle the microphone.
“Call building security,” I said.
My voice was steady. That surprised me.
Five minutes later, the family group chat exploded. Dad accused me of humiliating him, as if the lobby of my own building were a courtroom I had staged. Mom begged me to “handle this privately.” Vanessa wrote, Please don’t make this ugly.
That made me laugh.
Ugly had been the point when she told her law school friends I was unemployed. Ugly had been the point when Dad called my company Monopoly money. Ugly had been the point when an anonymous email reached one of my investors in 2020, claiming I was inflating contracts.
I opened my laptop and searched my old files.
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