Those three words did it.
Not the shouting.
Not the insults.
Those three words.
There you go.
As though the fact that my wife and daughter were okay erased what had happened.
I walked to the office door and opened it.
“”I need you to leave.””
Dad stared.
“”Excuse me?””
“”I’m asking you to leave my restaurant.””
“”You can’t be serious.””
“”I am.””
He pointed at me.
“”That woman has changed you.””
I looked him directly in the eye.
“”No. She showed me what love looks like when it isn’t attached to a bill.””
His face turned red.
For a moment, I thought he might shout again.
Instead, he straightened his shirt.
“”You’ll regret this, Ian.””
I didn’t answer.
He walked past me into the kitchen.
At the doorway, he turned back.
“”And when your mother finds out what you’ve done, don’t expect us to forgive you.””
I watched him leave.
Then I closed my office door.
My hands were shaking.
I stood there for a long time, looking at the empty chair across from my desk.
I’d just told my father to leave.
I’d said no.
And the world hadn’t ended.
But ten minutes later, my phone rang.
It was my mother.
This time, she wasn’t angry.
She was crying.
And she had something to say that made the entire situation much uglier.
