"You don't seem to understand the kind of family the Rogers are. Cole Group would've never grown to where it is without their help. And you—what have you accomplished? You've been married for ten years and still haven't had a single child with Sara."
My mother folded her arms and scoffed. "Exactly. All you do is sulk and throw tantrums. Listen to me, Oliver—when it comes to Sara, you have no right to ask for a divorce. Not now, not ever."
With that, they both walked away, leaving me alone in the center of the room.
I stood in silence, my cheek still tingling. My bare foot throbbed from the sprain, the ankle red and swollen. The scent of medicinal spray still lingered in the air—pungent, bitter, clinging to the back of my throat. And yet, from the moment my parents arrived until the moment they left, neither of them asked about it. Not a single glance.
All they cared about was Sara. The marriage. The Rogers. Their own reputation.
This scene—this ugly, suffocating farce—had played out before. And every time, it left the same dull ache pressing behind my eyes.
The next morning, the swelling had subsided only slightly. It still hurt to walk, but I forced myself out the door anyway.
Albert Murray's project was on a tight schedule and I expected to hit the ground running as soon as I joined. With paperwork still to submit and time running short before I needed to leave the country, I pushed through the pain.
When I returned that afternoon, the house was quiet, but the air inside was tense. Sara sat on the sofa, arms crossed, lips tight. Elise was next to her, angrily swiping at her tablet.
As soon as she saw me walk in, she shot up and shouted, her tone filled with undisguised contempt.
"It's already getting dark! Where the hell have you been?! Why didn't you pick me up from school today?! And why haven't you made dinner yet? What are Mom and I supposed to eat?!"
Now that Francis was returning, Elise didn't even bother to keep up any act. All the hostility and disgust she had were spilled out like poison.
Sara didn't stop her. Instead, she turned toward me, her eyes brimming with disdain.
"All she did was give you a little push and you're still mad about it? What kind of father holds a grudge against a ten-year-old?"
She exhaled through her nose, clearly exasperated.
"Enough. Go make dinner—Elise is hungry."