problems that I’m having with Neil. I want to make sure that they everything is documented to cover my ass in case he tries to pull something if I have to fire him.
After sending out the emails, I’m going over the numbers again. I employ people to do this. Why are they even working here if this can’t get this done correctly?
“Patrick, line one,” Kristin’s voice calls out from my office door.
I look up from the stack of papers that surround me and see she’s popped her head in my office. “Thank you, Kristin.”
I pick up the phone, wondering who the nameless caller is.
“Patrick Matheson.”
“Patrick…”
“Did something happen, Addison?”
“Dad had another stroke, and it caused irreversible damage this time. They want to transport him to hospice to live out his final days there. I…I can’t make these decisions by myself.”
“Do you know if he has a will?” Probably not, I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear and rub my temples. My headache is going to be a migraine by the end of this call.
“I think he does. If he does, it will be in his office.”
I take a deep breath…she can’t do all of this on her own.
“Tell them to keep him there for at least another forty-eight hours. If it’s a problem with insurance, I’ll cover it.”
“What? Why? Especially after all he said,” she asks, baffled.
“I’m not doing it for him, remember? I’m doing it for you. Tomorrow, meet me at the house and I’ll help you go through his office. Hopefully we can find a will or something stating what he wants.”
“Thank you, Patrick.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay, love you.”
“I love you too,” I say, hanging up the phone.
“Argh,” I scream out, throwing my water bottle that was sitting on my desk at the door.
There’s a knock at the door and Kristin walks into my office. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know. I have a lot of things to sort out. That was Addison, and our father is pretty much brain dead. We have to figure out how he wants to live out his final days.”
“Oh, Patrick. I’m so sorry. I know your father and you aren’t on good terms…”
“Thanks, Kristin. I’ll get it worked out.”
“I’m going to lunch. Do you want me to pick you up anything?”
“No, I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Call if you change your mind.”
“Will do.”
She closes the door quietly behind her.
The silence of the room is almost deafening. The guilt of how I treated my father the last time I saw him consumes me, darkening my mood. My jaw clenches as the pain he’d inflicted on me causes my temperature to rise, making me sweat. I take a shuddering breath, trying break the rage that has a hold on me. Eyeing the liquor on the sideboard, I start to stand up, but I don’t.
Taking a deep breath in, I hold it, and let it out. Deep breath in… As I soothe my temper, I realize I shouldn’t feel guilt for my actions. My father treated me like shit. He hit me; he screamed at me; he called me names. He wasn’t a father. He wasn’t even a friend. He definitely wasn’t a man. Even if he apologized for everything he has done to me, I don’t think I’d ever forgive him.
Why should I?
You’re worthless, Patrick. Worthless.
Why did he treat me like he did? Why did he have to take out all of his frustration out on me, his son, his child? I tried to be the best I could, and did everything I could to make him proud. Everything I did never felt good enough for him. I always had to prove myself, my worth.
I take another deep breath and reflect on everything I have today, everything I’ve accomplished and in all conscience, he’s why I am where I am today. His words, actions, lack of involvement fuels the rage that tries to consume me every second of the day. Instead of letting it take over the rage, the hate has driven me to be successful because I have to prove to myself daily that I’m nothing like he says I am. I’m not
After sending out the emails, I’m going over the numbers again. I employ people to do this. Why are they even working here if this can’t get this done correctly?
“Patrick, line one,” Kristin’s voice calls out from my office door.
I look up from the stack of papers that surround me and see she’s popped her head in my office. “Thank you, Kristin.”
I pick up the phone, wondering who the nameless caller is.
“Patrick Matheson.”
“Patrick…”
“Did something happen, Addison?”
“Dad had another stroke, and it caused irreversible damage this time. They want to transport him to hospice to live out his final days there. I…I can’t make these decisions by myself.”
“Do you know if he has a will?” Probably not, I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear and rub my temples. My headache is going to be a migraine by the end of this call.
“I think he does. If he does, it will be in his office.”
I take a deep breath…she can’t do all of this on her own.
“Tell them to keep him there for at least another forty-eight hours. If it’s a problem with insurance, I’ll cover it.”
“What? Why? Especially after all he said,” she asks, baffled.
“I’m not doing it for him, remember? I’m doing it for you. Tomorrow, meet me at the house and I’ll help you go through his office. Hopefully we can find a will or something stating what he wants.”
“Thank you, Patrick.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay, love you.”
“I love you too,” I say, hanging up the phone.
“Argh,” I scream out, throwing my water bottle that was sitting on my desk at the door.
There’s a knock at the door and Kristin walks into my office. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know. I have a lot of things to sort out. That was Addison, and our father is pretty much brain dead. We have to figure out how he wants to live out his final days.”
“Oh, Patrick. I’m so sorry. I know your father and you aren’t on good terms…”
“Thanks, Kristin. I’ll get it worked out.”
“I’m going to lunch. Do you want me to pick you up anything?”
“No, I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Call if you change your mind.”
“Will do.”
She closes the door quietly behind her.
The silence of the room is almost deafening. The guilt of how I treated my father the last time I saw him consumes me, darkening my mood. My jaw clenches as the pain he’d inflicted on me causes my temperature to rise, making me sweat. I take a shuddering breath, trying break the rage that has a hold on me. Eyeing the liquor on the sideboard, I start to stand up, but I don’t.
Taking a deep breath in, I hold it, and let it out. Deep breath in… As I soothe my temper, I realize I shouldn’t feel guilt for my actions. My father treated me like shit. He hit me; he screamed at me; he called me names. He wasn’t a father. He wasn’t even a friend. He definitely wasn’t a man. Even if he apologized for everything he has done to me, I don’t think I’d ever forgive him.
Why should I?
You’re worthless, Patrick. Worthless.
Why did he treat me like he did? Why did he have to take out all of his frustration out on me, his son, his child? I tried to be the best I could, and did everything I could to make him proud. Everything I did never felt good enough for him. I always had to prove myself, my worth.
I take another deep breath and reflect on everything I have today, everything I’ve accomplished and in all conscience, he’s why I am where I am today. His words, actions, lack of involvement fuels the rage that tries to consume me every second of the day. Instead of letting it take over the rage, the hate has driven me to be successful because I have to prove to myself daily that I’m nothing like he says I am. I’m not
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