Chapter 3 - The Tables Turn
Dad picked up the blue folder with hands that shook so violently the heavy cardstock fluttered like a leaf in a gale. He read my name. He read the project title, the municipal award codes, and the financial allocation figures. He looked back down at the magazine cover, then finally up at me, his mouth opening and closing silently like a fish out of water. No sound came out.
“I was going to give you the contract tonight, Dad,” I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room like a scalpel. “I advocated for your firm with the city board. I personally vouched for your past civil work to the municipal directors. I drafted the initial subcontract paperwork myself, putting your company at the top of the preferred vendor list.”
Mom turned paper-white, her fingers trembling as she gripped the back of Dad’s chair for physical support. “Tamara… sweetie… we didn't… we didn't know…”
“I told you,” I replied calmly, standing up slowly and buttoning my coat. “I told you three separate times this year what project I was leading. But you were both too busy mocking my truck, my rented apartment, and my ‘laptop hobby’ to actually listen to a word I said.”
Before anyone could process the sheer, catastrophic magnitude of what had just happened, I reached out across the table and plucked the blue folder right out of Dad’s paralyzed, trembling fingers.
“Hey, wait! Hold on!” Dad stammered, finally finding his voice as blind, suffocating panic crept into his eyes. He lunged forward from his chair. “Tamara, stop! That’s—that’s the Camden contract! That’s our company’s lifeline!”
“It was,” I corrected him smoothly, tucking the folder securely under my arm. “But since I’m just an ungrateful freeloader who makes cheap wooden trinkets, I certainly wouldn't want to insult your ‘real corporate work’ with a handout from a laptop hobbyist. Besides, I think I’ll be awarding this primary subcontract to Harrison & Sons Engineering on Monday morning instead.”
Harrison & Sons happened to be Dad’s fiercest, most ruthless corporate rival in the tri-state area.
Mom let out a choked, desperate sob, stumbling forward and grabbing my sleeve. “Tamara, please! You can’t do that! We didn't mean it like that! You know how your father gets when he’s stressed about business! We’re your family!”
“Merry Christmas,” I said, looking down at her clutching hand before gently pulling away.
May you like
I turned around on my heel and walked straight toward the front door, leaving my paper plate, my wobbly folding chair, and twenty-three completely stunned, open-mouthed relatives sitting in absolute, stunned silence.
I pushed open the front door, stepping out into the cold, crisp Ohio night air. The snow was still falling softly, dusting the shoulders of my coat as I walked down the driveway to my old Ford truck. I slid behind the steering wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and smiled broadly as the reliable old engine roared to life on the first crank. I shifted into drive and headed back toward the city, feeling lighter, more balanced, and more at peace than I had in thirty-three years.
