“You’ve achieved nothing,” the man said. But he didnt know his new boss was my son from my first marriage.
“Shirt! White! Couldnt you have guessed?”
Rodneys voice sliced through the morning quiet of the kitchen like a blade.
He stood in the middle of the room, yanking tight the knot of his most expensive tie, glaring at me as if I were some witless servant.
“Todays the new CEOs introduction. I need to look a million pounds.”
Silently, without a word, I handed him the hanger with the immaculate, freshly pressed white shirt. He snatched it as though I were stealing precious seconds from his life. Rodney was on edge. At times like these, he became a ball of bile and passive aggression.
He took out his frustration on me, the only person in his world he was certain would never push back.
“This new guysome upstart. A boy, really, and already CEO. They say his surnames Wainwright.”
My fingers froze on the coffee pots handle. Just for a second. Wainwright. My first husbands name. My sons name.
“You wouldnt understand,” Rodney muttered, admiring himself in the mirrored wardrobe doors. “Youre just a housewife, sitting in your little domestic bubble. You never wanted to achieve anything.”
He adjusted his tie, smirking at the “successful” man in the mirrorthe persona hed spent years crafting.
I remembered another morning. Years ago.
Me, swollen-eyed, clutching little Oliver, and my first husband, James, helplessly muttering that he had nothing and couldnt provide for us.
That was when I decided: my son would have everything.
I worked two, sometimes three jobs. First while Oliver was in nursery, then school. I fell asleep over his homework, then over his university notes. I sold the only thing I ownedmy grandmothers flatso he could take that Silicon Valley internship.
He was my greatest project. My most precious, most important investment.
“They say hes some poor engineers son,” Rodney went on, savouring the details like a connoisseur. “Imaginerags to riches. Those types are always the most ruthless.”
He needed to put the man in his place immediately.
He recalled how, once at a company party, drunk and smug, hed humiliated my ex-husband in front of everyone.
James had come to their firm with some project. Rodney called him a “dreamer with empty pockets” and laughed loudly.
He adored moments like that. They fed his bloated ego.
“Bring the shoe polish. And the brush. Quickly.”
I fetched everything he asked for. My hands didnt tremble. Inside, I was perfectly still.
Rodney didnt know his new boss wasnt just any “Wainwright.”
He had no idea this “boy” was the co-founder of an IT firm their holding company had just bought for an obscene sum, making him CEO of an entire division.
And he certainly didnt know this “upstart” remembered the man whod made his mother cry into her pillow.
He left, slamming the door behind him as usual.
I stood alone, watching his car pull away from the window.
Today, Rodney was walking into the most important meeting of his life. But he had no idea he was walking into his own downfall.
That evening, the door burst open as if kicked in. Rodney stormed into the hallway, his face crimson, his expensive tie hanging loose like a noose hed just escaped.
“I hate him!” he hissed, hurling his briefcase into a corner.
“Can you believe what that little brat dared to say to me?”
I stepped out of the kitchen, watching silently as he paced like a caged tiger.
“He spoke to me like I was some intern! Me! Head of the key department! He tore my quarterly report apart, line by line! Asked if Id bought my degree in a back alley!”
In his words, I saw not humiliation but real professionalism. That was my son. My Oliver. He always dug deep, left nothing unchecked.
“And you know what he said last?” Rodney stopped abruptly in front of me, panic swimming in his eyes. “Rodney, Im genuinely surprised someone with your performance still holds this position. I hope this is an unfortunate oversight, and you wont disappoint me further. That was a threat! To me!”
He waited for my sympathy, my advice, my support. But I said nothing. Just watched this broken, bitter man and feltfor the first timenothing at all.
“Why arent you saying anything?” he exploded. “Dont you care? Dont you give a damn that your husbandthe man who feeds you, clothes you, provides for youis being trampled into the dirt?”
Then the “brilliant” idea struck him, born of pure fear. His eyes burned with desperation.
“I know what to do! Ill fix this. Ill prove to this Wainwright Im not just a cog. Ill invite him to dinner. Here.”
I looked up at him.
“Yes! People relax in informal settings. Hell see my home, my status. And you” His gaze turned predatory. “Youll make an effort. Show him I have a solid foundation, a perfect wife, a flawless household. This is your one chance to be useful.”
He thought the plan was cunning. He thought hed use me as a prop.
And then something inside me clicked. I saw the whole picture. The perfect storm of his own making. And I knewthis was my moment.
“Fine,” I said calmly. He didnt sense the trap. “Ill arrange dinner.”
The doorbell rang at exactly seven. Sharp, like a signal.
Rodney, whod been pacing for half an hour, jumped up and rushed to the hallway. His face was plastered with the fakest of smiles.
I followed. Id prepared all his favourite dishes. Crafted the illusion of that “perfect picture” he wanted to show. The perfect trap.
The door opened. Oliver stood there.
Tall, immaculate in his suit, he looked older than twenty-six. His gaze was steady, assured. He extended a hand to Rodney.
“Oliver James Wainwright. Thank you for the invitation.”
Rodney flapped his hands, shaking the hand that was far firmer than his own.
“Rodney! So glad you could come! Make yourself at home!”
Oliver stepped inside and immediately met my eyes. He didnt smile. Just lookedlong and serious. That gaze held our entire shared history.
“This is my wife, Emily,” Rodney babbled. “My rock, my support.”
“Weve met,” Oliver said flatly, not looking away from me.
Rodney froze. His smile twitched.
“Met? How?”
All evening, he scrambled for control. Bragged about his “achievements,” cracked awkward jokes.
Oliver listened politely but distantly. The air at the table grew thick, sticky, like tar. Rodney downed glass after glass of wine. He could feel his plan unraveling.
So he struck where he thought it would hurt mostme.
“Oliver, youre so young, yet at the top. You must have the right priorities. Unlike my Emily here she wasnt so lucky.”
Oliver set his fork down carefully.
“Her first husband was lets say, a dreamer,” Rodney chuckled. “Some engineer with empty pockets. Lived on fantasies, couldnt feed his family. So Emily found happiness with me. Because she never achieved anything herself.”
Those same words. The last straw. And hed said them in front of my son. The son of that “dreamer engineer.”
Enough.
I lifted my head.
“Youre right, Rodney. I never achieved anything. Never climbed the corporate ladder. Never made millions.”
I paused, watching his face shift.
“I had just one project. One. My son.”
I turned to Oliver.
“I gave him everything. My life, my strength, my faith. So hed grow up never letting men like you trample himor those he loves.”
I looked back at Rodney. His face slackened, his eyes wide with animal fear. It was finally dawning on him.
“So meet Oliver James Wainwright. Son of that dreamer engineer. And my greatest success.”
The air in the room couldve been cut with a knife. Rodneys smirk dissolved, along with his arrogance.
Oliver stood.
“Rodney,” his voice was calm, but steel lay beneath. “Thank you for dinner. It was enlightening.”
“My father was a dreamer. He dreamed of a world where skill mattered more than sycophancy. Pity there was no room for that in your department.”
“OliverI didnt knowThis is a misunderstanding!”
“That youre incompetent is fact. That you belittled my mother for years is fact. Ill expect your resignation on my desk by nine tomorrow. Dont make me audit your projects. Therell be plenty to find.”
Rodney sagged. He looked at me pleadingly.
I stood too.
“Go,
