I, Asher Lambert, lived my entire life with my head held high—upright, honorable. Yet now, in my twilight years, I was nothing more than a punchline to my own son.
When I didn't respond, Joshua paced the length of the hospital bed. His shoes clicked against the linoleum like an irritated metronome.
"I know you're angry." He stopped, glaring down at me. "But have you considered *my* position? Do you think it was easy getting where I am today? Do you have any idea how many people are watching me, just waiting for me to slip up?" His voice climbed. "They're *desperate* for dirt on me!"
He threw his hands up. "You're my dad. That's a fact I can't change. But why can't you think about me for once? Why couldn't you just stay peacefully in the village? Why did you have to come to the company and make a *scene*?"
Silence.
*Think about him?*
Every step I had taken in this life—every drop of sweat—had been for him.
The ward door slammed open.
Paul Lambert, my cousin, surged in, trailed by a gaggle of relatives whose names I couldn't even recall. They flooded the small room like a tide, packing it so tight the air seemed to vanish.