Chapter 4 - Rebecca Knew Exactly Why I Never Corrected Dad
Rebecca came to our house Saturday afternoon.
No call.
No warning.
She knocked this time.
Emily opened the door.
“What do you want?”
Rebecca looked past her.
“Daniel.”
Emily turned toward me.
I was in the kitchen.
Noah was upstairs.
“Five minutes,” I said.
Emily did not move from the doorway.
Rebecca looked irritated.
“I’m not here to fight.”
“That would be new,” Emily said.
“Em.”
She looked at me.
I nodded.
She let Rebecca enter.
White cashmere coat.
Expensive boots.
The version of my sister Dad considered evidence the family had turned out correctly.
She sat at the dining table.
I remained standing.
“Dad hasn’t slept.”
“That sounds like something he should discuss with a doctor.”
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“No.”
“He thinks you’re cutting him off.”
“From what?”
“Us.”
I almost laughed.
“He shoved my son.”
“He lost his temper.”
Emily stopped in the doorway behind Rebecca.
I held up one hand.
I wanted to hear this.
Rebecca continued.
“Noah spilled food all over Mom’s tablecloth.”
Emily said:
“Your mother has been dead four years.”
Rebecca turned.
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
Emily’s voice stayed cold.
“I don’t.”
Good.
Rebecca looked back at me.
“Dad apologized to me.”
I stared.
“For what?”
“Ruining Thanksgiving.”
I almost smiled.
Of course.
He apologized:
sideways.
Never toward the person harmed.
“Tell him he has nothing to apologize to you for.”
“He wants Noah to come over.”
“No.”
“Daniel.”
“No.”
“He’s his grandfather.”
“He put his hands on him.”
“It wasn’t like he beat him.”
Emily moved.
I saw it before Rebecca did.
I stepped between them.
“Stop.”
Emily stared at me.
“Not for her.”
She stopped.
I looked at Rebecca.
“If your defense begins with:
it wasn’t like he beat him,
you have already lost the argument.”
Rebecca’s face tightened.
Then:
“Dad is seventy next year.”
“So?”
“You’re really prepared to throw away whatever time he has because of one incident?”
“One?”
She became quiet.
I started listing.
Noah’s sixth birthday.
Dad mocked the handmade card Noah gave him because Rebecca’s son gave:
golf tickets.
Christmas two years earlier.
Richard told Noah that “Prescott men don’t cry” after he got overwhelmed during a family argument.
Last Easter.
Rebecca called Noah’s school:
“where people go when their parents don’t plan ahead.”
Dad laughed.
Summer barbecue.
Richard told Emily:
“Daniel used to have ambition before domestic life softened him.”
Thanksgiving.
Shove.
Worthless brat.
Rebecca listened.
Then:
“Why did you keep coming?”
There it was.
A fair question from an unfair source.
“I shouldn’t have.”
She looked at me.
Then quietly:
“You’ve always done this.”
“Done what?”
“Let Dad say whatever he wants and then blame everyone for believing him.”
Emily went still.
Rebecca continued.
“You could’ve corrected the Lexington story six years ago.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I said nothing.
Rebecca’s eyes filled slightly.
She knew.
“Because of me.”
Emily looked at her.
Rebecca looked down.
“I know you told Emily.”
“Some.”
She nodded.
Then:
“Does she know why?”
No.
I could feel Emily’s attention.
Rebecca continued.
“You didn’t take the blame because you were noble.”
“That wasn’t all of it.”
I felt the old anger.
“Be careful.”
“Why?”
“We’re telling truth now, right?”
She looked at me.
“You wanted out.”
There it was.
The part I had been protecting.
Not Rebecca.
Myself.
“You hated working with Dad.”
“I hated what the company had become.”
“You hated that he expected you to stay forever.”
“Yes.”
“You and Emily were talking about moving to Columbus.”
Emily looked at me.
“That was before Noah was born.”
Rebecca continued.
“The Lexington disaster gave you an exit.”
I stared at her.
“It almost destroyed the company.”
“And you fixed enough of it to leave.”
“That’s not—”
“You could have fought Dad.”
“You could’ve put every email on the conference table.”
“You could’ve said:
Rebecca pushed Stratton.
Dad approved Lexington.
The board voted.
I warned everyone.”
“You didn’t.”
“Why?”
I knew.
Rebecca did too.
Because if I became:
the scapegoat,
I could leave.
Cleanly.
No debate about succession.
No years arguing whether I owed Dad my career.
No becoming:
future CEO
because I was the son who understood the balance sheet.
I had wanted:
out.
And I had wanted Dad to make leaving impossible to reverse.
Rebecca said:
“You protected me.”
“Yes.”
“You also protected yourself.”
“Yes.”
Emily was staring at me now.
That was the first time I said it aloud.
Rebecca continued.
“And then every Thanksgiving you let Dad humiliate you like some martyr.”
My anger rose.
“You benefited from the story.”
“Yes.”
At least she admitted it.
“You became the loyal one.”
“Yes.”
“Future CEO.”
“Yes.”
“His favorite.”
Her face broke slightly.
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
Silence.
Rebecca looked down at her hands.
“Do you think I don’t know some part of Dad’s pride in me is built on comparing me to a version of you that isn’t true?”
For the first time since Thanksgiving, she did not look smug.
She looked tired.
Then:
“I should have corrected him too.”
“Yes.”
“But you made me promise not to.”
Emily looked at me.
“What?”
Rebecca met my eyes.
“Tell her.”
I closed mine briefly.
Six years earlier, in the parking lot after my final board meeting, I told Rebecca:
Do not reopen Lexington. Let Dad believe what he needs to believe. Keep the company stable. I’m done fighting.
She had.
May you like
Too well.
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