At the work site, Georgia’s team is setting up in the new section she identified, twenty meters south of where we’ve been digging, marking out a fresh grid with methodical precision. Georgia is there, directing the placement of equipment, Ella’s playpen already set up in the shade nearby.
She looks tired. They all do. But there’s an energy to the work today that hasn’t been there before. Fresh purpose. New hope.
I should go down there. Observe. Ask questions. But I remember what Edmond said. What Georgia herself has said multiple times. I’m hovering. Micromanaging. Making everyone tensewith my constant presence. And yesterday, she proved she doesn’t need my supervision. She made a breakthrough while I was busy being frustrated and demanding. She did it by trusting her instincts, taking her time, following the evidence wherever it led.
Maybe I should let her work.
The thought is uncomfortable, like loosening my grip on something precious. But I force myself to walk past the excavation site toward the dining tent instead. Khalid is there, reviewing supply lists with Fatima.
“Good morning, Mr. Aarons. Coffee?”
“Please.”
I settle at a table with my laptop and satellite phone. The limited internet sucks, but it’s usually enough to check email and handle the most urgent business matters. The real estate conglomerate doesn’t stop just because I’m in the desert.
When I open my inbox, I find thirty-seven new emails. Not too many. I start working through them methodically. There are board minutes to review, acquisition proposals to read through. It’s the usual parade of decisions that can’t be made without my input.
When I’m almost through with the emails, I find one from my father, sent late last night New York time.
The subject line: “Enough.”
My jaw tightens as I open it.
Calvin,
I’ve been patient. I’ve let you indulge this fantasy of yours for long enough. But the board is asking questions. Our partners are concerned about your commitment. And frankly, so am I.
You’re out in the desert playing archaeologist while real business needs attention. Your responsibilities don’t disappear because you’ve decided to chase your grandmother’s fairy tales.
It’s time to come home. Hire someone to manage your little dig if you must, but your place is here, running the company you were raised to lead.
We’ll discuss this when you return. And Calvin? You will return. Soon.
Dad
I read it twice, my blood pressure rising with each word.
Playing archaeologist. Fairy tales. Little dig.Every phrase is calculated to dismiss, to diminish, to make me feel like a child who’s wandered off to screw around instead of doing his chores.
And the underlying message is clear: You don’t belong there. You belong here, doing what I trained you to do. Being who I made you to be.
Pressure builds between my eyebrows, and I try to ignore it, but it gets worse.
I shouldn’t let it get to me. I’m a grown man, a successful businessman in my own right. I don’t need his approval.
But that voice is in my head anyway, the one that’s been there since childhood:You’re disappointing me. You’re wasting your potential. You’re not good enough.
“Calvin?”
I look up sharply, and find Georgia at the entrance to the tent, looking hesitant.
“What?” It sounds more like a bark from a dog than anything else, and I cringe at the sound of it.
She blinks, clearly taken aback. “I just… have you seen Ella’s sippy cup? The blue one? She usually has it in the playpen but I can’t find it, and she’s getting fussy.”
“Why wouldIhave seen it?” I snap. “Do I look like I’m keeping track of your daughter’s things?”
Her expression shifts from hesitant to angry in an instant. “I was just asking if you’d seen it, not accusing you of taking it. Jesus, Calvin.”
