Ezoic
My father never asked about Tidewater.
Not once. In twelve years. Not at Thanksgiving. Not at Christmas. Not on my birthday.
When I called to tell him we’d sold, he said, “Well. Good for you. I guess it worked out.”
That was all.
He never came to visit me in Durham.
He never came to see the beach house.
Until he needed somewhere to stay.
For twelve years, I’d negotiated contracts. Managed difficult investors. Survived board meetings with men twice my age who called me sweetheart and young lady and asked if I needed to check with my boss.
Ezoic
I’d survived people who confused politeness with weakness.
And I’d learned an important lesson.
A boundary means nothing unless you’re willing to enforce it.
At 4:05 a.m., I went downstairs.
Quietly. In my socks. Down the back stairs that lead to the kitchen. Past the living room, where my father was snoring on the couch with the TV still on. Past the guest suite, where Melissa and Ben were asleep. Past my office, where Poppy and Jonah were curled up in sleeping bags on the floor.
