Hired by the Father I Hate

Ms. Dorsey froze.

After a long pause, she asked tentatively, "Are you sure you're talking about Mr. Booker?"

I offered no reply.

Ms. Dorsey was silent for a long while, then said softly, "Actually, when Mr. Booker saw your résumé, he gave me a heads-up. He said you're his only son, so he made a point of telling me to hire you."

"Sorry." I cut her off with a smile. "I'm an orphan—I don't have a father."

Ms. Dorsey was stunned for a long moment. Finally, with a conflicted look, she let me leave.

As I took the elevator down, Edgar's current wife, Leah Kern, walked in.

She gave a brief nod, then suddenly said wistfully, "This afternoon, when I heard that you had come for an interview, I thought it was just someone joking around. Time really flies—look how much you've grown."

When I didn't respond, Leah was silent for a moment before pressing on gently.

"Claude, take my advice. Back then, both you and Edgar had your own difficulties. But at the end of the day, he's still your father. Why don't you let bygones be bygones?"

Over the years, I had received this kind of advice far too many times.

Just because we were related by blood, I was supposed to forget the past and how my grandmother, Trudy Vance, died?

I couldn't do it.

I lowered my eyes and gently shook my head.

"That's never going to happen," I replied resolutely.

Someone had to remember what Edgar did.

When I got home, I washed my hands clean and placed the offerings I had bought in front of a black-and-white photograph.

In the photo, Grandma was smiling warmly.

That day had been my so-called father, Edgar's birthday—and also the happiest day of Grandma's life.

The moment I'd pressed the shutter, Grandma had looked toward Edgar and given her most radiant and proudest smile.

Ten years had passed since then. This year also marked the tenth year since Grandma had left me.

I wiped the memorial portrait meticulously clean, then went back to my room and sent out my résumé to several more companies.

Before long, a company with fairly good benefits got back to me, asking me to come for an interview the next day.

But when I arrived at the building of that company, I saw Edgar once again.

He was leaning against a black Maybach with a cigarette between his fingers.

When he saw me, he stubbed it out and walked toward me in his leather shoes.

His gaze was like that of an elite sizing up his latest business success.

After a long while, he nodded. There was a hint of approval in his eyes.

"I've looked at your résumé. You've made some progress over the years."

Instead of replying, I walked straight into the company building as if I hadn't seen him.

The elevator arrived with a ding. I collected myself and pushed the door open.

After the HR manager, Francis Palmer, took my résumé, he barely glanced at it before saying, "Sorry, you didn't get the job. Try looking elsewhere."

I frowned and said, "But you haven't even interviewed me yet."

Mr. Palmer hesitated for a moment, then said tactfully, "You're not quite suited for this position. I suggest you take a look over at Booker Group. Your qualifications are more in line with what they're looking for."

The moment I heard "Booker Group", I understood immediately.

Over the years, Edgar had tried many ways to repair our relationship. But every time, it had done nothing except drill into me even deeper just how impossible he was—just like today.

I took a deep breath and thanked Mr. Palmer. Then, I turned and left.

From behind me came hushed whispers.

"So, that's Mr. Booker's son? He's not quite what I imagined."

"I heard he was raised by his grandmother in the countryside. And for over a decade, Mr. Booker never once went back to see him."

"Oh my god. How could he do that? At the end of the day, that's still his son."