Page 3 of Billionaire Grump

It’s not something I’ve ever dwelled on all that much—the kind of life we would have had if my parents hadn’t split up—but this is like a cold slap in the face.

When the Uber pulls up in front of the house, it’s clear that my father’s house is one of the biggest and showiest on the street. It’s a colonial style McMansion with columns and neatly-trimmed topiary bushes. It sits on a ridge and has a nice view. Not a single blade of grass on the freshly-mown lawn is out of place.

It’s the kind of house where kids could run barefoot through the sprinkler having water fights. Where you’d have backyard barbecues on hot summer days with fresh-squeezed homemade lemonade. Snowy Christmases with a real Christmas tree you went out and chose from the farm on a crisp blue day filled with laughter. Snowmen with carrots for noses in the front yard. You just know that, every year, the mountain of artfully-wrapped presents piled under the tree on Christmas morning for the excited little boys is absolutely epic.

My stomach twists.

It’s the perfect place to raise a family.

Just not all of his family. Only his favorite half of it.

There’s a car parked in the driveway, a sleek, expensive black Range Rover. Anita’s car, I’m guessing. No doubt my dad drives a midlife-crisis-style red convertible sports car.

Which means it’s either parked in one of the three garages or he’s not here.

He could have parked in the garage. He probably did.

But some sixth sense tells me he didn’t. It’s telling me he’s not here.

My heart is beating fast.

I could turn back now and keep my pride intact. I could save myself a face-to-face encounter with the woman my dad left my mom for, who I’ve met only once, years ago now. I could avoid the reality that he doesn’t care enough about me to be here, even when he knew I was coming to see him.

How hard is it to not be a total letdown for once in your goddamn life?

I almost get straight back into the Uber and request a ride back to the station.

But I’m here now. And maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe he’s inside with a fresh pot of coffee waiting, ready to listen and apologize and, for once, do the right thing.

I take a deep breath and walk up to the front door before I can second-guess myself. I raise the heavy knocker and let it slam loudly, three times.

No one comes to the door.

I wait.

I knock again.

Still no signs of life.

So, I reach for the brass door handle.

I don’t expect it to be unlocked.

The door swings open.

Shit.

“Dad?” I call into the hallway. The floor is tiled with white marble. High ceilings give the place a stark feel. There’s a modern (hideous) white chandelier. The walls are white, with white art and white furniture. Peering in, I can’t help but notice it looks like a very up-market dentist’s office. “Dad? Anita? Hello? Anyone home?”

There’s no response.

I bang the door knocker again.

There’s still no sign that anyone is home.

I wait probably a full minute, wondering what to do next.

Almost against my will, I step inside.