Chapter 4

The drive home was silent. Mark drove while I stared out the window, the city lights blurring past. The anger had subsided into a deep, hollow ache. The slap didn't hurt anymore, but the memory of my father's face, cold and unforgiving, was seared into my brain. It wasn't just about the watch or the money. It was the culmination of a lifetime of feeling secondary.

My father, Henry Vance, was an artist. Or at least, that' s what he called himself. To me, he was a man who had always prioritized his own abstract feelings over the concrete needs of his family. Growing up, our home revolved around his moods. When he was "inspired," we had to be silent. When he was in a "slump," we had to walk on eggshells. He had a particular disdain for my chosen career.

"Architecture is so... rigid, Olivia," he'd say with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's about rules and measurements. Art is about freedom." What he meant was that my career was practical and made money, something his never did. He had a deep-seated resentment that I, his daughter, was the successful one, while he, the man of the house, was not.

My mother, Ava, was the complete opposite. She was a nurse, practical and tireless. She worked double shifts to pay the bills, to fund my father's "artistic endeavors," and to make sure I had everything I needed for school. She was the one who encouraged my love for design, buying me drafting kits and books on famous architects. She was the bedrock of our family, and my father simply stood on top of her, taking her support for granted.

After I graduated from college and started my own firm, I became the primary breadwinner. I insisted my mother retire. I bought them a better house. When my mother got sick, I paid for the best doctors and private care. My father just stood by, sketching in his notebook, complaining about the hospital's "poor aesthetic."

After my mother passed away, the full weight of my father' s dependency fell on me. I felt a duty to care for him, for my mother' s sake. He hated the house because it was "too big and empty," so I bought him a chic, modern studio apartment downtown, close to the galleries he liked to frequent. I gave him a generous monthly allowance so he could live comfortably and pursue his art without any financial worries.

For a while, things seemed better. With his needs met, he became warmer, more attentive. He'd call me, praise my work, dote on Lily. I knew, on some level, that his affection was tied to my financial support, but I was willing to ignore it. I craved a normal father-daughter relationship so badly that I was willing to pay for the illusion of one.

Then came Brenda. "I'm lonely, Olivia," he'd said. "I need a companion, a caregiver." I agreed, wanting him to be happy. I hired Brenda, paying her a salary that was more than generous. I saw her as a solution. I never imagined she was a predator, and that my father would be her willing accomplice.

The memory of the last few months played back in my mind. The little comments from Brenda about how much things cost. My father' s increasing requests for more money for "art supplies" or "unexpected expenses." I had been so blind, so desperate to believe in the illusion of a happy family that I had ignored all the red flags.

My phone buzzed, pulling me from my thoughts. It was my father. I let it ring. He called again. And again. On the fifth call, I finally answered and put it on speaker.

"Olivia! What is the meaning of this?" he yelled, his voice panicked. "My card was just declined at the grocery store! And I got an email from your financial manager! You cut me off?"

His voice was laced with disbelief and outrage, as if I had committed the ultimate crime.

"Yes," I said calmly.

"You can't do that!" he shouted. "I'm your father! You have a responsibility to take care of me!"

"My only responsibility is to my daughter and my husband now," I replied, my voice as cold as ice. "You made your choice at the school today. You chose Brenda and her fifty thousand dollars over your own family. You can live with that choice."

"But... but the studio!" he stammered. "You can't take the studio! Where will we live?"

"My lawyer will be in touch with you about that," I said. "Goodbye, Dad."

I hung up the phone before he could respond. I blocked his number, and then Brenda's. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. It wasn't a victory. It was a amputation. It hurt, but I knew it was necessary to survive.