Sometimes, I think my father’s real middle name must be Irony. Worked hard to get where he is? I don’t think so. My grandfather was the hard worker in our family. He was the one who founded a pharmaceutical company in Mexico that started from nothing and went on to make millions, allowing him to move to the States and expand his business here, where it continued to thrive until he was one of the richest men in the world. He then moved his family to New England, away from their home in Guadalajara, though my abuela returned there after his death since that was where he wished to be buried.
As for Dad, he was in his late teens when he relocated to the U.S. with my grandparents—still young enough to be a dependent for visa purposes—and a few years later, after Hallazgo really began to take off, he met my mother, who comes from old money, and whose lineage can be traced backto the Pilgrims who first settled in Massachusetts. She’s always insisted she loves my father for his “wonderful personality,” but that’s hard to believe considering the guy acts like he has a giant foot up his ass ninety percent of the time. In reality, I’m sure him being the heir to a billion-dollar company is what drew her eye. My ma is nothing if not a gold digger, and my pops was all too happy to accept her family’s connections, of which there were many. Any love between the two is manufactured bullshit.
My father continues, his voice terse, “We’re fed up with your nonsense, hijo. If it wasn’t for your mother’s repeated pleas on your behalf, I would’ve pulled the plug sooner.”
Now,thatcatches my attention. “Pulled the plug?”
He leans back in his seat, nostrils flared, and his dark eyes—so like my own—glint in the afternoon light flooding in through the window. “Cut off.”
My pulse quickens as the meaning behind those words sinks in, weighing in my bones like lead.
For several seconds, I stare at Dad in shock, blinking like an idiot. “Come on. You can’t be serious.” When he says nothing else, I look at my mother again. “Mom?”
She doesn’t meet my gaze. “All you had to do was get an education and behave. Why was that so difficult?”
My mouth goes dry. “You’re acting like I’m flunking out of school when I’m not. I’m doing fine. And might I remind you,everyoneparties in college. It’s practically a requirement.” The words come out barely louder than a whisper rather than as the forceful protest I intend.
A sneer disfigures my father’s features. “Fineis not CEO material. Nor is this.”
Placing his phone on the table, he spins the screen to face me, revealing a post on his X feed with the hashtag#hardonforHallazgoand a picture of me outside a busy Providence nightclub sporting a very conspicuous boner. I don’tnormally walk around with raging erections, but I lost a bet, and I am nothing if not true to my word. You win some, you lose some, and I definitely lost that one, especially now that I’m banned from at least seven different Rhode Island nightclubs for life.
Still, I can’t deny it was funny.
My parents, however, looked unamused.
“Okay, first, that was just harmless fun. Hardly newsworthy. Second, you should be thanking me for the free promotion. I was simply proving our new erectile dysfunction drug really does wor?—”
“Do you think this is all a game?” Dad interrupts, his facade of calm on the brink of cracking once more. “Youare the future of Hallazgo, Damian. Everything you do, no matter how harmless you think it may be, reflects on the company and on its perceived stability. Those dinosaurs you mentioned? Our board of directors? They, our shareholders, and any future investors are already forming opinions about you, which could very well affect what role you play in the years to come, if any.”If any.Those words ping around in my brain like a warning bell as he frowns at me, the disappointment in his gaze clearer than ever. “Your abuelo would turn over in his grave if he could see what you’ve become, and I refuse to leave the legacy of his life’s work in the hands of a…” He falters as if he can’t find a strong enough word for what he wants to say, then gestures to literally all of me before finally spitting out, “pendejo.”
Frankly, I’m not sure whether to laugh out of surprise or to feel deeply insulted given the offensive nature of the term. It’s not every day my old man calls me a moron, and he’s called me a lot of things over the years. While it might not seem that harsh by American standards, if we were in Mexico, his word choice would’ve raised some brows.
I’ve definitely struck a nerve this time.
“So, that’s it?” I retort, unable to keep my rising panic from my voice. “You’re cutting me off without any warning? No ‘three strikes, you’re out’ or anything?”
In truth, if I were to tally up everything I’ve ever done to piss off my parents, I’d probably realize I’ve had way more than three strikes. They just never reacted so conclusively to my behavior before. They always let me off easy—a slap on the wrist here, a few choice words there. They never threatened to kick me out of the family, and because of that, I thought they never would, especially after what we’ve been through. But it’s been four years now since the Day We Don’t Speak Of, and I guess they’re tired of waiting for me to get over it. To stop acting out. But the thing is, I feel like I have to hang on. I have to act out to remind them. Ihaveto care the most because, if I don’t, it seems like no one cares at all.
“You misunderstand me, hijo.” My father’s tone takes on a cajoling croon, making this conversation all the more ominous. “Thisisyour warning. You have until graduation to prove to not only your mother and me, but to the entire board, that you’re serious about your role in this family and at Hallazgo. Failure will not be tolerated. There will be a vote, and if we do not believe you’re mature enough to start work at the company as of this coming summer, you won’t step into a position there at all, and you will officially be on your own. No more handouts. No more excuses. It’s time for you to grow up.” My dad raises a finger and makes a clicking sound with his tongue as if he just remembered something. “Oh, and if you think you can just keep coasting, and fall back on some cushy trust fund like the other fresas at your school, you’re sorely mistaken.”
I bristle at the way he says fresas—at the clear implication in his tone that I, too, am one of these privileged, spoiled brats he’s referring to.
His gaze hardens as he hammers the final nail in the coffin that is my shattering future. “Your abuelo didn’t believe in silver spoons. And neither do we.”
My jaw tenses. My abuelo believed in earning your keep, and detested when people raised their kids without an appreciation for hard work. I’ve always known that about my family, and yet, I never imagined myself losing the privilege I grew up with. Just as I never considered what I might do if I lost it.
But in my family, an inheritance is only bequeathed one way, and that inheritance is tied to Hallazgo. It’s conditional. Earned. And in my father’s eyes, I haven’t earned a fucking thing.
“I’m well aware,” I mutter, tight-lipped.
My mother takes hold of my father’s hand where it rests on the table, and together, they stare at me with piercing eyes, a force to be reckoned with. As for me, I just see them as heartless puppeteers pulling the strings controlling my life.
As I glance between them, I gradually begin to comprehend just what it is they’re asking of me. They want me to show them I can act like an adult…but what do adults do that I don’t? Have money? Technically, it’s family money, but that’s got to count. Check. Have sex? Check. Have a job? Well, that one’s all lined up, assuming I can prove I’ve changed, both to them and to a room full of stuffy old dudes who don’t even know me beyond my name.
Changed…The word settles on my skin like dried sweat, making me itch. How the hell can I prove to them I’ve changed when I don’t have any inclination or desire to do so? When I don’t want to be a carbon copy of my father or miserable like my emotionally-constipated mother? Okay, sure, I can start attending my classes more often, but something tells me that won’t be enough to sway them. Not this time.
No, they want something else. Something to show them I can really be serious…
My mother squeezes my father’s hand in hers, and that slight public display of affection draws my focus, giving me a brilliant idea.
