On my thirtieth birthday, my mother-in-law raised a toast with the words, to our silly girl from a poor family who lives off our money, and my husband started laughing loudly at that, then my father stood up from the table and did something that made my mother-in-law freeze in place.
Thirty years old, a milestone that’s usually celebrated in grand style, I didn’t want a noisy party, but Kyle insisted, Paula, come on, it’s an important date, he said, looking at me with his brown eyes, in which golden sparks danced, the very sparks that once made me fall madly in love with him, now looking back, I realize those sparks weren’t a sign of special warmth, but just a play of light, deceptive, like much in our family life.
The morning of my birthday started with hustle and bustle, Kyle booked a banquet hall at the Bellagio restaurant, the most expensive and posh venue in our city, I knew this choice was not so much for me as for his mother, Valerie, a woman who, in eight years of our marriage, never once called me by name to my face, preferring the impersonal “she,” or at best, “our daughter-in-law.”
You can’t imagine how I managed to book this hall, Kyle boasted as we drove to the restaurant to discuss the menu, people queue up six months in advance, but I pulled some strings, and there you go. What strings he pulled, I knew perfectly well, the restaurant owner was an old acquaintance of his father, Victor, a major businessman who held half the construction business in the state in his hands, a man whose name was uttered with awe by anyone even slightly connected to real estate and investments. My father-in-law, unlike his wife, always treated me neutrally, not warmly, but without open hostility.
He was too busy with his affairs to pay attention to women’s squabbles, as he called them. In his understanding, marrying off his son was just another checkmark in the list of necessary life stages, continuing the lineage, creating the right image of a family man, that’s what mattered, and who exactly became the wife was secondary, as long as this woman didn’t interfere and knew her place. The place assigned to me in the Harrington family was very clearly defined from the first day – a silent companion, grateful for the honor bestowed, a girl from humble origins who was incredibly lucky to enter high society.
My own family was ordinary, working-class, my father an engineer at a factory, my mother a elementary school teacher, we never lived luxuriously, but we didn’t struggle either, my parents gave me the main things: education and the understanding that a person’s dignity isn’t measured by the thickness of their wallet. My father, Nicholas, disliked the Harrington family from the first meeting, Paula, they look at people like commodities, he said as we drove home after the first introduction to Kyle’s parents, everything is measured in money for them, even love. I brushed it off then, youth, infatuation, the desire to believe in the best, all that overshadowed the obvious red flags.
Besides, Kyle himself seemed different, not like his parents, more open, sincere, modern. We met at university, I was studying journalism, he economics, we met at an inter-faculty conference where I came as a representative of the student newspaper, and he as a participant with a presentation on new economic trends. I remember how he stood confidently on stage, juggling complex terms and statistics, and I looked up at him, literally and figuratively, thinking I’d never met such a smart and handsome guy.
After the conference, he approached me himself. You listened so attentively, he said with a smile, wrote down everything, even more than needed, I answered honestly, showing my notebook filled from top to bottom. Kyle invited me to a cafe, then again, and again.
Our romance developed rapidly, just six months later he introduced me to his parents, three months after that he proposed, and two months later we got married. The wedding is a separate story, Valerie took the organization of the celebration into her own hands, turning it into a demonstration of the Harrington family’s status, 400 guests, most of whom I saw for the first time in my life. The banquet hall of a five-star hotel, decorated with live orchids specially flown in from Thailand..
My dress from a famous designer, chosen by my mother-in-law without asking my opinion, it costs as much as an apartment in downtown New York, she whispered to her friends, loud enough for me to hear, but what won’t you do for your son’s happiness. My parents were barely visible at this celebration of life, they were seated at a table somewhere in the far corner, next to distant Harrington relatives invited just for the crowd. My father sat with a stone face, occasionally throwing worried glances my way.
Mom tried to pretend everything was fine, but I saw how she nervously fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth. The most painful moment came when it was time for the parental toasts, Victor spoke at length, addressing mainly the business partners at the VIP tables, about his successful son, about how important it is to create the right family, about continuing the Harrington dynasty, about me just a couple of obligatory phrases. When it was my father’s turn, Valerie tried to intervene, maybe let’s move straight to the dancing, the schedule is tight, she said loudly to the emcee.
But my father had already stood up, he wasn’t an orator, simple but sincere words about love, about how his daughter’s happiness is the most important thing in the world to him. Kyle, he said at the end, looking straight at my newlywed husband. Remember, you’ve received the most precious thing I have, take care of her.
At that moment, I saw Valerie lean toward her friend and whisper something, covering her mouth with her hand, the friend giggled quietly in response. The first years of marriage flew by in a haze, Kyle got a job at his father’s company, of course, right into a managerial position. We had an apartment as a wedding gift from his parents, spacious, in an upscale building, with furniture and appliances chosen, again, by Valerie.
My career in journalism stalled almost immediately. First, Kyle hinted that the wife of the Harrington heir shouldn’t be running around the city with a recorder, then he openly demanded that I quit. Why do you need this job? It doesn’t bring much money, and you’re wasting time that you could devote to the family.
By family, he meant primarily dinner parties, charity events, and other gatherings where Kyle Harrington’s wife had to appear appropriately. In eight years, I learned to smile on command, maintain small talk about nothing, and elegantly answer tactless questions about why we still didn’t have children. There really were no children, not because we didn’t want them, it just didn’t happen.
I underwent numerous exams, took hormonal medications, visited the best specialists. Kyle got tested only once, and only after long persuasions. The problem is clearly not with me, he declared when the results were within normal limits, keep getting treated.
Valerie used the topic of childlessness as another opportunity for jabs at me. Probably runs in the family, she said to her friends at yet another tea party, not particularly caring that I was sitting nearby. Her mother also only had one child, unlike me with three, all healthy.
Kyle didn’t care about such comments. Mom’s just worried that we don’t have kids, he brushed it off when I tried to talk to him about it. Over time, I learned to detach from my mother-in-law’s barbs, developed a defense mechanism, mentally distancing myself, imagining I was somewhere far away, at the beach, in the mountains, in the forest, anywhere but here, in the golden cage where they were systematically squeezing the personality out of me.
Perhaps it would have continued like that if not for one event that turned my life upside down. Six months before that fateful birthday, I accidentally got access to our family’s financial documents. Kyle left his laptop open, and on the screen was a spreadsheet with monthly income and expenses.
I wasn’t spying, just wanted to close the lid so the computer wouldn’t drain, but my gaze involuntarily caught the numbers, and I froze. It turned out that my husband, who supposedly held a managerial position in his father’s company, actually received a purely symbolic salary there. The main money was simply transferred to him monthly from Victor’s personal account.
Essentially, 32-year-old Kyle was living on pocket money from dad. This discovery shocked me to the core. All these years, he presented himself as a successful businessman working for the family empire, boasting about deals he supposedly closed, projects he implemented, but in reality, he was just a dependent playing the role of a business person.
I didn’t make a scene, decided to observe, gather more information, and the more I learned, the clearer it became that the entire Harrington life was built on lies and pretense. Their elite status, position in society, business connections, all held solely on Victor’s money and influence. Kyle hadn’t earned a single penny on his own.
Moreover, he had huge debts to his father, a separate spreadsheet was full of amounts he borrowed for his whims. And most importantly, I realized that our apartment, which they had buzzed in my ears about as a generous gift from Kyle’s parents, was actually not a gift but a kind of investment; the apartment was formally in my name, but Victor made us sign some documents, the essence of which boiled down to the fact that in case of divorce, I would have to pay the full cost of the housing. Kyle brushed it off then, it’s just a formality, dad is reinsuring, don’t worry about it.
These discoveries completely changed my attitude toward my husband’s family; I saw them for what they were: pompous, deceitful people living for show, for whom status and public opinion were the most important. I started looking at Kyle differently too; how could I not notice his infantilism before, how did I not see that behind the mask of a successful man hid a spoiled boy used to getting everything with a snap of his fingers. The answer was simple and painful at the same time: I didn’t want to see, preferred to believe in the fairy tale I had painted for myself, in the fairy tale of a handsome prince, sincere love, and a happy family.
During that period, I often called my parents, more than usual, didn’t tell them about my discoveries, didn’t want to worry them, especially my father, who had recently been diagnosed with heart problems, but with some sixth sense, he realized that not everything was smooth in my life. “Paula, you can always come home,” he said during one of our phone conversations, so simply and sincerely that I almost burst into tears. “I know, Dad,” I replied, trying to sound cheerful.
“Remember, true wealth isn’t money, but people who truly love you.” I often recalled these words in the following months as I observed the Harrington family as if from the outside, seeing all their flaws, all their fake smiles and feigned emotions. I didn’t know what to do next: divorce, try to fix the relationship, have an honest talk with Kyle; all options seemed both possible and impossible.
And then came my thirtieth birthday, the anniversary I would have preferred to celebrate quietly, with the closest people, but as already mentioned, Kyle insisted on a lavish celebration, or rather, not even him, but his mother. “Thirty years is an important date,” Valerie declared categorically, “it needs to be celebrated grandly.” Grandly, in her understanding, meant the same posh Bellagio restaurant, eighty guests, mostly Harrington friends and colleagues whom I barely knew, and a menu whose cost could feed a small African village for a year.
I decided not to argue; after all, it was just one evening. Besides, I invited my parents and a few old friends to the party; the presence of loved ones should make this evening more bearable. My parents arrived the day before the event; Dad looked tired, the heart problems and the long trip were taking their toll.
Mom fussed around him, offering pills, water, or rest. “Everything’s fine,” he brushed it off, “don’t make me out to be an invalid.” We sat in the kitchen of our luxurious apartment, drinking tea and talking about everything.
I caught myself thinking that for the first time in a long time, I felt calm and cozy, truly at home. “How’s your job, Dad?” I asked, knowing there had been layoffs at the factory lately. “Fine,” he replied, but somewhat uncertainly.
“We’re managing.” Mom gave him a quick glance that I couldn’t decipher. “Dad, what’s going on?” I asked directly.
He sighed. “The factory is closing. Next month is the last shift, and that’s it…
Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I didn’t want to worry you; you have enough on your plate. Will you manage financially?” “Don’t worry about us,” Mom put her hand on mine. “We have savings, and your father has already found a new job, though with a lower salary, but we won’t go under.”
I felt a pang of guilt; all these years, I lived in luxury, not thinking about how my parents were living, accepting expensive gifts from the Harringtons, traveling to resorts, wearing designer clothes, while Dad and Mom saved, set aside from every paycheck, worried about the future. “I can help,” I said resolutely. “Don’t even think about it,” Dad cut me off.
“We won’t take a penny from you.” “But why? It’s normal to help parents, normal to help with your own money, not your husband’s,” Dad was adamant. I wanted to argue, say that I had my own savings, though in fact there weren’t many, but at that moment the phone rang.
Kyle, asking if I forgot about the dress fitting for tomorrow’s event. Of course not, I lied. In fact, I had completely forgotten about that dress, chosen, of course, by Valerie, another designer masterpiece meant to showcase the Harrington family’s wealth. I had to hurry and head to the salon.
My parents stayed in the apartment; Dad needed to rest before tomorrow’s party. Valerie was waiting for me at the salon. She critically examined the dress hanging on a special hanger.
Navy blue, with a deep back neckline and a scattering of crystals along the hem. Finally, she snorted when she saw me. I thought you weren’t coming.
Sorry, I got caught up talking with my parents. Oh, they’re here, she pursed her lips as if she’d eaten something sour. I hope they’ve prepared for tomorrow’s event, bought appropriate clothes.
I felt anger boiling inside; my parents always look appropriate for the situation, I replied, trying to speak calmly. “Well, well,” Valerie hummed, “I remember at your wedding, your father was in a suit that went out of fashion twenty years ago.” I stayed silent; arguing with her was pointless.
Besides, we were in the salon full of other clients and consultants. The fitting went in a tense atmosphere. Valerie commented on every detail, every fold on the dress.
Need to take it in at the waist, she commanded the seamstress, and shorten the sleeves, and for God’s sake, do something about this paleness, that was to me. Book an urgent tanning session. When we left the salon, Valerie suddenly took me by the arm, a gesture that from the side might seem friendly, but was actually just a way to control my movements.
“Listen, Paula,” she began in the tone she usually used for particularly unpleasant conversations. “Tomorrow is a very important day; all our friends, Victor’s colleagues, business partners will be there. I ask you to keep an eye on your parents.” “In what sense?” I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
“In the direct sense; your father at the wedding allowed himself some statements that put us in an awkward position.” “I don’t want that to happen again; my father is a decent man, and he never allowed himself inappropriate statements,” I felt blood rushing to my face. “Oh, come on,” Valerie waved her hand, “all those talks about real values and sincere feelings; everyone knows their price, dear, and your family’s price, frankly, is low.”
At that moment, something clicked inside me; all the accumulated over eight years of marriage, all the grievances, all the humiliations, all the moments when I swallowed barbs for the sake of peace, all that suddenly rose from the depths of my soul and turned into cold, controlled rage. “You know what, Valerie,” I said quietly but firmly, “you’re right, everyone knows their price, and your family, with all your money and connections, isn’t worth a tenth of what mine is.” She froze with her mouth open.
In eight years, I had never allowed myself such audacity. “What did you say,” she finally squeezed out, “you heard perfectly well, and at tomorrow’s party, I’ll be with my parents, and if someone,” I emphasized the word, looking her straight in the eyes, “allows disrespectful treatment toward them, I won’t stay silent, don’t doubt it.” Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked to my car.
My hands were shaking, my heart pounding like crazy, but inside it was surprisingly calm. For the first time in a long time, I felt real, not a doll, not a decoration in the “Harrington Family” play, but a living person with my own dignity. In the evening, when Kyle came home, I realized that my mother-in-law had already complained to him; he burst into the apartment, slamming the door loudly.
“What do you think you’re doing,” he threw instead of a greeting. I was sitting in the kitchen with my parents; we were drinking tea and talking about the upcoming party. “Hello, Kyle,” I replied calmly, “what exactly is bothering you? You were rude to my mother.”
She called me in tears. I wasn’t rude; I just asked her to treat my parents respectfully. Kyle shifted his gaze to Dad and Mom, as if noticing their presence only now.
“Hello, Nicholas, Helen,” he said through gritted teeth. “Hello, Kyle,” Dad replied, “maybe sit down? Let’s discuss everything calmly.” Nothing to discuss.
Paula, a word, he nodded toward the living room. I followed him. As soon as we left the kitchen, he grabbed my arm.
“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed. “Tomorrow is an important day; all our acquaintances are coming, and you’re starting scandals with my mother.” I didn’t start a scandal.
Your mother insulted my family again. And I just let her know I won’t tolerate it anymore. What do you mean “insulted”? She just wanted everything to go perfectly tomorrow.
Perfectly for whom, Kyle? For your mother? For your father? What about me? This is my birthday after all, but somehow all decisions are made without my involvement. He let go of my arm and ran his hand through his hair, a gesture that appeared when he was nervous. “Paula, let’s not fight.
Tomorrow is an important day; we need to keep face.” “Face? Or mask?” it slipped out. “What do you mean?” I suddenly realized I was tired, tired of pretending, playing a role, being someone I’m not.
“Nothing,” I sighed, “let’s just get through tomorrow.” Kyle looked at me intently, as if trying to understand what was happening to me, but as usual, he didn’t dig deeper. “Great,” he said with relief.
“And please, keep your emotions under control tomorrow.” He kissed me on the cheek, a dry, formal kiss, and went to take a shower. And I returned to the kitchen to my parents.
“Is everything okay?” Mom asked with concern. “Yes, everything’s fine,” I smiled, trying to look carefree. Dad looked at me with his penetrating gaze.
“Paula, you know you can tell us if something’s wrong.” “I know, Dad,” just a small misunderstanding, it happens in every family. He nodded, but I saw he didn’t believe me.
Dad always sensed when I was lying. The rest of the evening was spent preparing for tomorrow. I helped Mom iron her party dress.
We spent a long time choosing what jewelry she should wear. Dad watched the news on TV, occasionally commenting on particularly resonant events. Kyle kept his distance, had dinner with us, exchanged a couple of obligatory phrases with my parents, and went to his office, citing urgent work.
That night, I couldn’t sleep for a long time, lying staring at the ceiling, thinking about how my life had changed in these eight years, how I myself had changed, from a confident, ambitious girl to a shadow, an appendage to the Harrington name. Kyle slept next to me, snoring quietly; in sleep, his face looked younger, more vulnerable. Sometimes in such moments, I remembered why I fell in love with him: his enthusiasm, his ability to dream, his way of seeing the world in bright colors; where did it all go, when did my beloved turn into another copy of his father, a cold, calculating businessman.
The morning of my anniversary started with bustle: hairdresser, makeup artist, manicurist; all these people were called to our apartment on Valerie’s orders. Mom, seeing this parade of professionals, just shook her head. “Paula, you’re beautiful without all this,” she said when we were alone for a minute.
“Thanks, Mom, but you know with the Harringtons, everything has to be top-notch.” “Yes, I know,” she sighed, “just don’t forget you’re not only a Harrington, but also a Sullivan.” Sullivan, my maiden name, which I had almost forgotten over these years.
Valerie always winced when she heard it. “So plain,” she said, “good thing now you’re a Harrington.” By four in the afternoon, I was fully ready: hair styled in a complex updo, makeup flawless, the new dress fit like a glove…
I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself: a beautiful, groomed woman with perfect makeup and empty eyes. Where did that lively, sincere girl I once was go? My parents were ready too.
Mom in a modest but elegant dark green dress, Dad in a new suit they bought especially for this occasion. “You look great, Dad,” I said, adjusting his tie. “Thanks, daughter,” he smiled, decided to match the event’s level.
In his eyes, I saw a mix of pride and worry. Pride in me, and worry that my shiny social position might not be as happy as it seemed from the outside. Kyle called two cars, one for us with him, the second for my parents.
“It’ll be more convenient this way,” he explained. But I knew the real reason; he just didn’t want to ride in the same car with my simple parents. The Bellagio restaurant shone with lights; at the entrance, waiters greeted us with trays of champagne; guests had already started arriving, mostly colleagues and friends of the Harringtons.
I saw my parents stop a bit confused at the entrance, not knowing where to go. Mom, Dad, I approached them, taking a glass of champagne from the tray. “Come, I’ll show you your seats.”
For my parents, I specially chose a table next to ours so they wouldn’t feel cut off from the center of events, like at the wedding. Valerie, seeing this, pursed her lips but said nothing. Guests arrived one after another; I stood at the entrance with Kyle, accepting congratulations and gifts.
Most guests I knew only superficially: my father-in-law’s business partners, my mother-in-law’s friends, distant relatives. But there were also my friends, a few classmates I kept in touch with, two colleagues from the magazine where I once worked. When all the guests gathered, the banquet began; the emcee, a well-known showman in the city, announced the start of the celebration; congratulations, toasts, musical numbers flowed; everything was organized with the typical Harrington grandeur.
I sat at the central table, between Kyle and his father. Victor, as usual, was taciturn, occasionally nodding to the music, politely applauding the performers, but spending most of the time scrolling through something on his phone. Valerie, on the contrary, was in her element, moving from table to table, chatting with guests, laughing loudly at the emcee’s jokes, periodically approaching us, leaning toward Kyle and whispering something in his ear.
After the third toast, I noticed Dad looked pale. “Dad, are you okay?” I asked, approaching their table. Yes, don’t worry, he smiled weakly, it’s just stuffy in here.
“Maybe go out to the terrace, get some fresh air?” Good idea, I’ll go for a couple of minutes. I watched him go, feeling growing anxiety. Lately, his health had noticeably worsened, though he tried not to show it.
Kyle, noticing my worry, approached me. “What’s wrong?” “Dad’s not feeling well; he went out for air.” “Nothing,” Kyle waved carelessly, “he’ll get some fresh air and come back.
Come on, your dance is next.” I returned to the table, but my thoughts were with Dad. At that moment, the emcee announced it was time for the special dance of the birthday girl with her husband.
Kyle led me to the center of the hall; slow music played, and we twirled in the dance. “Smile,” Kyle whispered, holding me by the waist. Everyone’s watching us.
I obediently stretched my lips into a smile, thinking about how fake everything in my life had become; even in such a seemingly intimate moment as a dance with my husband, the main thing wasn’t our feelings, but the impression we made on others. After the dance, the parade of congratulations began.
One after another, guests came to the microphone, said warm words, presented gifts; most speeches sounded obligatory, insincere. They talked about my beauty, my successful marriage, how lucky I was to become part of the Harrington family. Finally, it was Kyle’s parents’ turn.
Victor stood up, took the microphone, and delivered a short but flowery speech. “Paula,” he said at the end, “you’re a worthy wife to our son. I wish you health, beauty, and finally, to delight us with grandchildren.”
I smiled politely, used to such hints. Valerie looked expectantly at her husband, clearly waiting for him to pass her the microphone, but Victor, finishing his speech, simply returned to his seat. This clearly wasn’t part of my mother-in-law’s plans.
She stood up herself, resolutely headed to the center of the hall, and took the microphone from the emcee. “Dear friends,” she began, scanning the hall, “today we have a celebration, the 30th birthday of our daughter-in-law Paula, a beautiful date, a beautiful girl.” The hall murmured approvingly.
Someone shouted, “Kiss!” Valerie smiled with that smile that never reached her eyes. “Yes, yes, a kiss will definitely happen, but first I want to say a few words.”
I felt everything inside me tense; something in her tone, in her gaze, suggested that something unpleasant was about to happen. Paula joined our family 8 years ago, a simple girl from an ordinary family. Who would have thought then that she would fit into our circle so successfully.
Laughter ran through the hall; I saw Mom tense up, sitting at the neighboring table. Over these years, she’s learned a lot, become a real Harrington: elegant, presentable, though no children yet, but let’s hope it’s temporary. Another laugh; I felt my face flush with color, and today I want to raise a toast to our Paula, to our silly girl from a poor family who lives off our money.
Silence hung in the hall; I looked at Valerie, not believing my ears. Kyle next to me suddenly laughed loudly, and his laughter sounded especially insulting in this silence. And then something happened that no one expected.
My father, who had just returned from the terrace, slowly rose from his seat. Pale but determined, he headed to the center of the hall where Valerie stood with a glass in her hand. “Dad,” I wanted to stop him, but he was already walking, back straight, with an expression on his face I’d never seen before.
The hall fell silent; all eyes were on my father, a simple factory engineer, resolutely walking to the center of the luxurious restaurant, to the microphone still held by Valerie. My mother-in-law stood with a frozen smile, clearly not understanding what was happening. When my father approached her closely, she involuntarily stepped back.
“Excuse me,” Dad said calmly, but steel rang in his voice, “may I have the microphone?” Valerie handed it to him in confusion, finding no words to refuse. Dad took the microphone and turned to the hall; his face was pale but calm. I noticed Mom half-standing from her seat, clearly worried about his health.
“Good evening, dear guests,” Dad began. My name is Nicholas, I’m Paula’s father, whom you’re congratulating on her anniversary today. I held my breath.
What would he say, would he cause a scene? I knew Dad as a calm, restrained person, but now, after such an insult, he had every right to anger. I would like to say a few words about my daughter, Dad continued, about the Paula I know, not the one Valerie just described. The hall was silent; Kyle next to me tensed, clearly ready to intervene if Dad’s speech went in the wrong direction.
Victor finally tore himself away from his phone and watched the proceedings with interest. “My daughter is not a silly girl,” Dad’s voice was firm. She graduated university with honors, worked at a prestigious magazine, had career prospects, but chose family, your family, Harringtons.
Valerie paled; she clearly didn’t expect this turn of events. As for poverty, Dad smiled slightly, it’s all relative. Of course, my wife and I never had money like the Harrington family; we’re simple working people, I’m an engineer, my wife a teacher; we don’t drive expensive cars, don’t vacation at elite resorts, but we’ve never been poor.
He paused, scanning the hall. We gave our daughter the most important things: education and the understanding that human dignity isn’t measured by the thickness of a wallet; we taught her to be honest, hardworking, to respect people regardless of their social status. And I’m proud of the person my Paula has become.
I felt tears welling up in my eyes; Kyle looked at me with an incomprehensible expression, a mix of surprise and confusion. And lastly, Dad turned to Valerie, about the money; my daughter never lived off your money, Valerie; she lived with your son, created a home for him, supported him in all his endeavors; that’s called family, not dependency. My mother-in-law stood as if petrified; her face expressed such shock as if she’d been slapped.
Now, Dad handed the microphone to the emcee. “I would like to return to celebrating my daughter’s birthday. Paula, happy anniversary, Mom and I love you very much.” He turned to leave but suddenly stopped, swayed, and clutched his heart; sharp pain reflected on his face.
“Dad,” I rushed to him, seeing him pale before my eyes. He tried to say something but couldn’t utter a word; his knees buckled, and he began to sink to the floor. “Call an ambulance!” I shouted, supporting Dad; he’s having heart trouble.
Chaos erupted in the hall; someone rushed to the phone, someone tried to help. Mom ran up to us, her face distorted with horror. “Nicholas, hold on!” she whispered, stroking his face.
“The ambulance is coming.” Dad lay on the floor, his breathing heavy, uneven. I held his hand, feeling it grow cold.
Paula, he whispered with effort, “Sorry for ruining your party.” “Don’t say silly things, Dad,” I squeezed his hand, “you didn’t ruin anything; you’re the best father in the world.” Kyle stood nearby, confused and pale.
“The ambulance is on its way,” he said. “Hold on, Nicholas.” Valerie stepped aside, clearly not knowing how to react to what was happening.
Victor approached us and knelt next to Dad. “I know a good cardiologist,” he said. “I’ll call him now; let them meet the ambulance at the hospital.”
I looked at my father-in-law in surprise. This gesture seemed so uncharacteristic of him that I didn’t know how to react. The ambulance arrived in 10 minutes, which felt like an eternity to me.
The medics quickly assessed Dad’s condition, hooked up a heart monitor, set up an IV. Their faces were serious, movements quick and precise. “Heart attack,” one of the doctors said, “need to get to the hospital urgently.”
Dad was loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled to the exit. I walked beside, holding his hand. “I’ll go with him,” I said to Mom, who followed, quietly crying.
Me too, she wiped her tears. When the ambulance left, taking my parents, I stood at the restaurant entrance. The party was hopelessly ruined, but that was the last thing on my mind….
