“You’ve never achieved anything,” the man said. But he didnt know his new boss was my son from my first marriage.
“Shirt! The white one! Couldnt you have figured that out?”
Rodneys voice, sharp as a blade, sliced through the morning quiet of the kitchen.
He stood in the middle of the room, furiously tightening the knot on his most expensive tie, glaring at me as if I were some dim-witted servant.
“Todays the new CEOs introduction. I need to look like a million quid.”
Silently, without a word, I handed him the hanger with the flawlessly pressed white shirt. He snatched it as though I were stealing his precious time. Rodney was on edge. In moments like these, he became a ball of bile and passive aggression.
He took his anger out on methe only person in his world, he was convinced, who would never push back.
“This new blokes some upstart. A boy, and already CEO. They say his surnames Harrington.”
My fingers froze on the coffee pots handle. Just for a second. Harrington. My first husbands name. My sons name.
“You wouldnt understand,” Rodney scoffed, adjusting his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe doors. “Youre just a housewife, sitting in your cosy little swamp. You never wanted to achieve anything.”
He straightened his tie, smirking at his own reflection. That smirk wasnt for meit was for the “successful” man in the mirror hed spent years meticulously crafting.
And I remembered another morning. Years ago.
Me, swollen-eyed with tears, little Arthur in my arms, and my first husband, James, muttering helplessly that he had nothing and couldnt provide for us.
That was when I decided, in that leaky one-bedroom flat: my son would have everything.
I worked two, sometimes three jobs. First when Arthur was in nursery, then school. I fell asleep over his homework, later his university notes. I sold the only thing I ownedGrans flatso he could take that internship in Silicon Valley.
He was my greatest project. My most precious and important venture.
“They say hes some poor engineers son,” Rodney went on, savouring the details like a gourmet. “Rags to riches. Those types are always the most ruthless.”
He recalled the time, at a company party, well into his cups, hed humiliated my ex-husband in front of everyone.
James had come to their company with some project. Rodney called him a “dreamer with empty pockets” and laughed loudly.
He adored moments like those. They fed his bloated ego.
“Bring the shoe brush. And the polish. Quickly.”
I brought everything he asked for. My hands didnt tremble. Inside, I was perfectly still.
Rodney didnt know his new boss wasnt just “some Harrington.”
He didnt realise this “boy” was the co-founder of an IT firm their holding company had just bought for a fortune, making him CEO of an entire division.
And he certainly didnt know this “upstart” remembered the man who made his mother cry into her pillow.
He left, slamming the door as usual.
I stood alone. Went to the window and watched his car drive away.
Today, Rodney was heading to the most important meeting of his life. But he had no idea he was walking into his own execution.
That evening, the door burst open as if kicked in. Rodney stormed into the hall, his face scarlet, 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 had the nerve to say?”
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 apart my quarterly report, every figure! Asked if Id bought my degree in an alley!”
In his words, I saw not humiliation, but true professionalism. That was my son. My Arthur. He always dug into details, left nothing unchecked.
“And do you know what he said last?” Rodney stopped dead in front of me, panic swimming in his eyes. “Rodney, Im genuinely surprised someone with your metrics still holds this position. I hope this is just an unfortunate oversight, and you wont disappoint me further. That was a threat! To me!”
He expected sympathy, advice, support. But I said nothing. Just looked at this broken, furious man and feltnothing.
“Why arent you saying anything?” he exploded. “Dont you care? That your husband, who feeds you, clothes you, keeps you, is being trampled into the dirt?”
Then the “brilliant” idea struck him, born of pure fear. His eyes burned with madness.
“I know what to do! Ill fix this. Ill show this Harrington 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 home, a perfect wife. This is your one chance to be useful.”
He thought this plan was cunning. He thought hed use me as a prop.
And then something clicked inside me. I saw the whole picture. The perfect storm hed created himself. And I knewthis was my moment.
“Fine,” I said calmly. He didnt sense the trap. “Ill arrange dinner.”
The doorbell rang precisely at seven. Sharp, like a signal.
Rodney, whod been pacing for half an hour, leapt up and rushed to the door, his face fixed in the fakest of smiles.
I followed. Id made all his favourite dishes. Crafted the illusion of the “perfect picture” he wanted to show. The perfect trap.
The door opened. Arthur stood there.
Tall, in an impeccable suit, he looked older than twenty-six. His gaze was steady, confident. He extended his hand to Rodney.
“Arthur Jameson. Thank you for the invitation.”
Rodney flapped his hands, shaking the much firmer grip.
“Rodney! Delighted! Come in, make yourself at home!”
Arthur stepped inside and immediately found my eyes. He didnt smile. Just lookedlong, serious. In that gaze was our whole shared history.
“This is my wife, Emily,” Rodney babbled. “My rock, my support.”
“Weve met,” Arthur said evenly, not looking away from me.
Rodney froze. His smile twitched.
“Met? How?”
All evening, he scrambled for control. Boasted about his “successes,” cracked awkward jokes.
Arthur listened politely but distantly. The air was thick, sticky as tar. Rodney downed glass after glass, sensing his plan unravelling.
Then he struck at the sorest spotme.
“Arthur, youre so young, yet at the top. Youve got the right priorities. Unlike Emily here she wasnt so lucky.”
Arthur set down his fork carefully.
“Her first husband was lets say, a dreamer,” Rodney chuckled. “Some engineer, penniless. Lived on dreams, 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. No career. No millions.”
I paused, watching his face change.
“I had just one project. One. My son.”
I turned to Arthur.
“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 my husband. His face sagged, his eyes wild with animal fear. It was finally dawning on him.
“So meet Arthur Jameson. Son of that dreamer engineer. My most successful project.”
The air in the room turned to ice. Rodneys smirk melted, along with all his arrogance.
Arthur 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 your department had no room for that.”
“Arthur, II didnt knowThis is a misunderstanding!”
“That youre an incompetent manager is fact. That you belittled my mother for years is fact. Resignation on my desk by nine tomorrow. Dont make me audit your projects. Ill find things.”
Rodney crumpled. He looked at me pleadingly.
I stood too.
“Go, Rodney.”
My “go” wasnt shouted, wasnt angry. Just a full stop.
He gasped, scrambling for excuses.
“Em you cant This house
