Every New Year's Eve, the relatives gathered together, and I sat in the farthest corner. I listened to them talk about whose kid had gone abroad, who'd bought a mansion, whose son-in-law had just been promoted to VP.
Nobody spoke to me. Nobody cared what I'd done for the company.
Last New Year's Eve dinner, Steve had too much to drink and blurted out in front of a dozen family members: "Seriously, Joe, you're running around the office like a headless chicken all day. What's even in it for you?"
"No equity. No dividends. You're not even a director."
"Don't tell me you actually think you have a stake in Henson Group."
Everyone laughed.
Felicity laughed too. She told me later, "Don't pay attention to him. He was drunk."
But in the moment, she hadn't said a word.
She never spoke up for me in front of those people. Not once.
It was always afterward, when it was just the two of us, that she'd say softly, "I'm sorry you had to go through that."
And then everything went back to normal.
I didn't go back to the office. Instead, I called up Solomon James for drinks.
Solomon was a colleague from my days at the research institute, and the only friend who'd stayed in touch over the years.