Chapter 3 - The Departure
“Sit back down, Barbara!” Dad ordered, his authority returning in a flash of old-school intimidation. He stood up from the booth, blocking my exit toward the aisle. “We are a family. We handle our own affairs. You call whoever sent you that file right now and tell them it was a clerical error!”
I looked up at my father. He was a man who had spent sixty years believing that a last name and a golf club membership could override the law.
“Move, Dad,” I said quietly.
“You’re not going anywhere until this is sorted out,” Dad growled, stepping closer, towering over me the way he used to when I was ten years old and dared to question his rules. “Your brother’s future is on the line. If he goes down, the family name is ruined.”
“The family name was ruined the moment Jeffrey decided to steal from dying kids,” I retorted, holding my ground. “And if you touch me, or try to stop me from leaving, I’ll add accessory after the fact to your retirement portfolio.”
Dad froze. His hand, which had been raised to grab my arm, stopped mid-air. He looked into my eyes and saw something he had never expected to find in his daughter: absolute, unyielding indifference.
Slowly, his arm dropped to his side.
I didn't wait for him to find his voice. I stepped past him, sliding out of the booth and walking down the carpeted aisle of the restaurant.
Behind me, I heard my mother start to weep—not tears of genuine remorse, but the hysterical, desperate crying of a woman realizing her social standing had just evaporated. Jeffrey was already on his phone, screaming frantically into the receiver at some invisible lawyer or investor who was never going to answer.
I didn't look back.
The cool Chicago air hit my face like a physical blessing as I pushed through the glass doors of the restaurant and stepped out onto the riverwalk. The morning sun was climbing higher, glinting off the gray steel of the bridge.
For the first time in my life, my shoulders didn't ache from carrying everyone else’s burdens.
My phone buzzed again in my coat pocket.
I pulled it out, expecting another frantic text from Jeffrey or a desperate plea from my mother.
Instead, it was a text from Chief Resident Dr. Vance at the hospital.
“Barbara, are you near the west wing? We have an emergency admission coming in from the river docks—a Jane Doe, unresponsive, trauma protocol active. We need you.”
I checked my watch. My shift had ended two hours ago. I was supposed to go home, sleep, and try to piece my life back together.
May you like
Instead, I turned toward the subway station.
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