Chapter 7 - WHAT MY FATHER REALLY WANTED FOR THANKSGIVING
Thanksgiving morning, Dad finally called me himself.
His voice sounded different.
Smaller.
“Emily.”
“Dad.”
“I think Sunday got out of hand.”
That was as close to an apology as Richard Bennett had probably come in twenty years.
“You threw your daughter and grandson out of your house.”
“I was upset.”
“You insulted my husband.”
“I may have misjudged Daniel.”
I looked across our kitchen.
Daniel was kneeling beside Noah, helping him build a cardboard dinosaur while the Macy's parade played quietly in the living room.
No designer watch.
No luxury suit.
No visible clue that anything about him had changed.
He was exactly the same man Dad had mocked.
That was what made the whole thing almost funny.
“Why did you misjudge him?” I asked.
Dad hesitated.
“I've learned some things.”
“Such as?”
Another pause.
Then his real concern emerged.
“I need ten minutes with Daniel.”
Of course.
“What for?”
“Business.”
I closed my eyes.
“You still don't understand.”
“Emily, this affects our entire family.”
“No, Dad. It affects you.”
His breathing changed.
“Can you put Daniel on?”
I looked at my husband.
He must have understood from my expression because he shook his head once.
“No.”
“Emily—”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.”
I ended the call.
Daniel looked at me.
“You okay?”
I nodded.
Then Noah held up his crooked cardboard dinosaur.
“Daddy made the legs wrong.”
Daniel looked offended.
“I followed your instructions.”
“You did it wrong.”
I started laughing.
Within seconds Daniel was laughing too.
And standing in our kitchen, watching my husband argue with a five-year-old about cardboard dinosaur anatomy, I finally understood why he had kept so much of his life private.
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My father believed power was something you displayed so people would respect you.
Daniel believed that if someone needed to see your power before offering basic respect, their respect wasn't worth having.
