Page 54 of Release Me

“What’s going on?”

Dad frowns. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific, son.”

“Well, we’ve gone from having a standing lunch on Monday to multiple gatherings throughout the week that are starting to feel less optional and more mandatory, so, again I ask, what’s going on?”

My parents raised us to be fiercely independent, while also making sure we felt loved and safe with them. Which means that by the time we were all grown, we felt ready to take on the world on our own. We all moved out at eighteen, securing our own jobs and finding our place in the world. By some miracle, we’d all found those places in New Haven, able to stay close to each other and our parents. That proximity never came with more than one obligatory family engagement a week, now we’re working our way up to three.

Mom’s round eyes cut to Dad who looks more uncomfortable now than he did when he sat me down to give me a talk about sex, condoms and consent when I was 14.

“Tell him, Everett,” she says and her words cause my throat to constrict because they seem to confirm my fear that something is wrong.

My eyes fly to my father’s face. “Are you sick?”

He hasn’t even answered my question, and I’m already reeling. Trying to imagine what him saying yes would mean for our family. Him stepping back from the business I never wanted to run. Hospital stays and doctor’s visits. Prescriptions for medicines impossible to name. His large frame yielding to physical exhaustion, every cell in his body turning against him, conspiring to take him away from us.

My thoughts must show all over my face because Dad moves from his place on the couch by Mom to the ottoman in front of me. He puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing tight to demand my attention.

“Look at me, son.” I do as he says, and I feel like a little boy again. Searching his face for reassurance, depending on his calm to ground me. “I’m not sick. A few months ago my doctor found a blockage in my heart, so I had to get a stent placed. It was a minor procedure, and I’m doing fine.”

“A few months?” A strange mixture of disbelief and relief coats the words. I look over at Mom, and her features are still the way they always are when she’s trying to hide the fact that she doesn’t agree with her husband’s decision but went along with it anyway. “You knew about this?”

She brings the glass of wine in her hands to her lips, taking a swig before answering me. “Yes, I was the one who made him go to the doctor when he was having chest pains.”

“And you hid that from me?”

I don’t make mention of my siblings because as the oldest the information pipeline always sends knowledge flowing my way first. And I’m the dam, holding everything back to protect them, only opening up to release something when it all gets to be too much. When that happens, I loop in Andreas, and if we can’t hold it together, we call in Luca. Nothing ever touches Zoe if we can help it.

“It was my decision,” Dad says, narrowing his eyes in a silent reprimand for questioning my mother, and by extension, him. “There was no need to worry you when everything went fine.”

“What if it hadn’t gone fine though, Dad? Then what? Do you have any idea what it would have done to us to just wake up one day and find that you’re gone?”

My question sends images of a younger version of Nadia’s face flitting through my mind. She was sixteen when she lived the exact reality I’m asking my father to imagine for me and my siblings. It’s been over a decade and that pain is still so fresh for her. The grief of it was heavy on her tongue when she said the words in the car.

“Sebastian, please.” Mom’s hand goes to her chest, and I see the beginning of a sob working its way up her throat. I don’t know what it is about today that has me making every woman I care about cry. She tries to fight it back, but the sob refuses to be delayed especially when Dad turns from me to her. The second their eyes lock, it hits the air, a jagged note of devastating possibility.

“Maddy.” Dad calls, reaching for her. She brushes him off as she rises from her seat.

“I’m fine,” she lies. “I just need a moment. You two keep talking.”

We watch her go, both of us fighting the urge to go after her. Me, to apologize for upsetting her. Dad, to console her. Neither of us move, though, because we have things we need to say to each other.

“She gets upset every time we talk about the procedure.”

“And what could have happened if you hadn’t gotten it in time.”

He rubs at his jaw with hands that look like mine, grimacing at my addition to his statement. “Yes, she thought I was having a heart attack.”

“You weren’t far off.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t. I got lucky, and I won’t ever forget that.”

“What brought it on?”

“Stress. Your mother and my cardiologist seem to believe I’ve been working too hard and not taking good enough care of myself.”

That sounds about right to me. Dad doesn’t know how to take a break. For decades, he’s worked himself to the bone day in and day out, never taking a day off or indulging in a vacation. He’s carried the entirety of the family business on his back, taking on all the stress and responsibilities. When I graduated with my MBA, I was supposed to step into the CFO position at Adleron Enterprises. Doing so meant helping take some of the stress off of Dad and also getting the hands on training necessary to eventually fill the CEO role when he retired. Instead, I decided to take a leap of faith and start my own company. Everyone was shocked at the choice, but Dad was the only person whose opinion meant anything to me. He was sad about not being able to pass the company on to me like his father had passed it on to him, but he was also supportive. That support made it easy for me to feel good about my choice, and I’ve never regretted it.

Until now.

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