Chapter 8 - The Price of Pride
Wade looked as if he had been struck by lightning. He staggered back, reaching out to grab a nearby chair for balance.
Fallon burst into frantic tears. "You can't do that! We have a mortgage! We have payments on the house! Edna, tell him! Tell him to stop! You're his mother!"
I looked at Fallon. For years, I had tiptoed around her fragile ego, endured her passive-aggressive insults, and accepted her dismissive comments just to keep the peace with my son.
"Fallon," I said, my tone flat and devoid of anger, but filled with absolute steel. "You asked me last Sunday if I cleaned behind the toilet. I did. But I am no longer cleaning up the messes you and my son make of your own lives."
Robert put a comforting arm around my waist. "Arthur, please ensure security escorts Mr. and Mrs. Miller off the premises. Their presence is ruining my wife's evening."
"Right away, Dr. Vance," Arthur said sternly. He signaled two large hotel security guards who were standing near the entrance.
Within seconds, the guards stepped up to Wade and Fallon.
"Sir, ma'am, you need to come with us," the lead guard said firmly, placing a hand on Wade's shoulder.
"Mom! Mom, please!" Wade sobbed as he was pulled backward, his rented tuxedo wrinkled, his slicked hair messy from sweat. "Mom, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Please talk to Robert! Please!"
I stood beside my husband, holding my head high, watching as my son was escorted out of the grand ballroom in front of two hundred of his industry peers.
I did not feel joy at his downfall. I felt a profound, heavy sorrow for the boy I had raised—the boy who had allowed greed, vanity, and pride to destroy his character. But beneath that sorrow was something I hadn't felt in thirty-five years: relief. The burden of carrying a ungrateful child's emotional demands was finally gone.
Once Wade and Fallon were escorted through the double doors, the atmosphere in the ballroom slowly settled.
Arthur Peterson turned back to us, looking deeply apologetic. "Dr. Vance, Mrs. Vance... I cannot express how deeply sorry I am that you had to experience such disrespect from an employee of this company."
"Thank you, Arthur," Robert said graciously. "You handled it with appropriate decisive action."
For the rest of the evening, Robert and I were treated like royalty. Senior executives came to our table to offer their admiration, not just to Robert for his pioneering inventions, but to me. Woman after woman came up to hold my hand, thanking me for standing up for mothers everywhere, praising my dignity and strength.
As we sat at Table One, sipping fine wine and listening to the soft jazz orchestra playing on stage, Robert leaned over and kissed my cheek softly.
"How are you feeling, my love?" he asked gently.
May you like
I looked around the sparkling room, then down at my sapphire dress, and finally into the warm, devoted eyes of the man who had given me back my voice.
"I feel free, Robert," I whispered, smiling for the first time in days. "I feel completely free."
