The man who had checked his watch while I begged for my daughter’s life was now begging for my attention.
I set the phone down and walked to the window, watching the autumn leaves spiral to the ground. My finger hovered over the callback button.
Sunlight sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, casting long shadows across Italian marble. I adjusted the black leather suitcase on my desk, centering it perfectly between the crystal paperweight and my Montblanc pen. The weight of what was inside didn’t match its sleek exterior.
“Ms. Winters.”
My assistant’s voice broke through the intercom.
“Your parents have arrived.”
“Send them in.”
My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
The double doors opened, and I barely recognized the two people who entered. Dad’s silver hair had thinned, his shoulders stooped beneath his discount department-store blazer. Mom clutched her knockoff handbag, her once-perfect makeup applied with a shaky hand.
Their eyes darted around my office, taking in the minimalist furniture, the views of downtown Portland, the evidence of everything they weren’t anymore.
“Thank you for seeing us, Vanessa.” Dad attempted his boardroom voice, but it cracked around the edges. “You’ve done quite well for yourself.”
Mom nodded too quickly. “The magazine feature was… lovely.”
I gestured to the chairs across from my desk. They sat in unison, the choreography of the desperate.
Dad cleared his throat, leaning forward with hands clasped, the same posture he used when negotiating with suppliers.
“Family should stick together during difficult times.”
“We’re in trouble, sweetheart,” Mom said, her voice wavering.
“The bank is foreclosing on the house. We owe more than we can pay.”
“The economy hasn’t been kind to traditional furniture stores.” Dad’s eyes fixed on a point just past my shoulder. “Online retailers have changed everything.”
“Your success is remarkable,” Mom added, forcing brightness into her tone. “We always knew you had potential.”
The rehearsed compliment hung between us.
“If you had just explained how serious Zoey’s condition was,” Dad said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we might have understood better. It happened so fast, and with Blake’s engagement that night—”
My gaze shifted to the framed photographs on my desk. Zoey in her hospital bed, small fingers clutching the stuffed rabbit Tom had given her, the heart monitor tracker still visible on her tiny wrist. Another frame held Tom and Denise at Zoey’s kindergarten graduation, their weathered faces beaming. Beyond them stood three crystal awards from the Children’s Heart Foundation I had established the year before.
“Three years, two months, and fourteen days,” I said.
They exchanged glances.
“That’s how long it’s been since the night of Blake’s engagement party.”
