My Father Called Me A “Waste Of Space” At His Anniversary Party — He Forgot I Own The Venue
Part 2
My assistant sent back a thumbs-up emoji seconds later.
The confirmation finalized the end of my secret charity.
Brenda had started speaking now, thanking everyone for coming and sharing memories of their flawless marriage.
Her voice sounded distant and muffled through the speakers.
My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear over the blood rushing in my ears.
A waste of space.
Those words echoed in my mind on an endless loop.
After everything I had sacrificed, everything I had quietly fixed behind the scenes while they lived in blissful ignorance, this was my reward.
Mrs. Pemberton suddenly appeared beside me.
She looked at me with the kind of sympathetic concern usually reserved for terminal patients.
She asked if I was all right, noting how pale I looked.
I managed to tell her I was fine, though my voice sounded strange even to my own ears.
She patted my arm, assuring me that my father did not mean anything by his brutal speech.
She claimed men simply did not always express themselves well.
I stared straight ahead, replying that he had expressed himself perfectly.
Her face scrunched with confusion, but the speeches finally concluded before she could ask anything else.
The band struck up a lively jazz number, and the crowd dispersed toward the dance floor.
I found myself alone again, watching my parents accept congratulations and well wishes from their wealthy friends.
My phone buzzed with a text from Brian.
He admitted Dad went too far with his comments, asking if I was okay.
I typed back a brief lie, claiming I was fine and enjoying the party.
Another buzz vibrated against my palm.
My business partner texted to say he saw the news coverage of my parents’ anniversary online.
The local lifestyle papers always covered their high-society events.
I was about to respond when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.
I turned to find Greg standing behind me.
His expression carried a sheepish, forced innocence.
He called me honey, asking if we could step aside to talk.
I crossed my arms, asking him exactly what we needed to discuss.
He admitted his words might have come out wrong during the toast.
I raised an eyebrow, asking if he was sure, since it sounded exactly like he had called me a waste of space in front of two hundred people.
His face reddened under the ambient lights.
He stammered, insisting he was just trying to be honest about their ongoing concerns for my future.
He suggested he could have been more diplomatic, that he could have phrased it better.
I stared at this man who had raised me, paid for my education, and given me every advantage in life before completely writing me off.
I asked him straight out if he actually thought I was a waste of space.
He went quiet for a long moment, considering his words entirely too carefully.
He finally settled on claiming I was capable of so much more than I had achieved.
I reminded him that was not what I asked.
He sighed, pointing out that I was thirty-one, lived in a one-bedroom apartment, and drove a ten-year-old car.
He claimed my freelance projects barely paid the bills.
He asked how I planned to support myself when the freelance work inevitably dried up.
The sheer irony of his lecture threatened to suffocate me.
He was standing in a ballroom that I had fully paid for, worrying about my financial security.
I took a slow, deliberate breath, realizing he truly had no idea about the reality of his own life.
Dad, who do you think has been paying your mortgage for the past three years?
