“You poor thing…”she said, clutching my hand tightly. “You dad has lost his mind!”
Grandpa had been silent the whole time; but his expression grew darker and darker, the veins on the back of his hands bulging beneath his thin skin.
When I mentioned the words my father had said—“If he can’t make something of himself, I won’t acknowledge him as my son”—Grandpa slammed his hand on the table with a loud bang.
“That brat!”
He shot up from his chair, chest heaving with anger.
“I see he’s grown some backbone now! How dare he treat you like that? This cannot go on…” He pulled out his old phone and dialed my father’s number.
The moment the call connected, he roared into the receiver.
“Wayne Thompson Crowe! You get your ass back here right now! I don’t care if you’re in the middle of meeting, you dropped it and drive here this instant!”
Whatever my father tried to say on the other end, Grandpa didn’t give him the chance—he hung up straight away.
A few hours later, my father’s Maybach pulled up in front of Grandpa’s house.
He stepped out, frowning, clearly impatient.
“Dad, I’ve got things to handle at the company. What’s so urgent? What’s this about?”