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“You put your heart and soul in each one, and I’m so proud of the writer you’ve become.”
A smug smile stretches across my face as I let his praise wash over me. If making my father proud was an art form, I’d have mastered it by now. Honestly, it feels more like a science than an art, something my brothers never cared much to attempt. I simply do exactly as I think he would, and it pays off.
And yet…I still get the feeling that there’s a catch to his comments tonight.
“I like writing them. You know that. But I can’t help but feel like there’s something you have to criticize.” I send him a crooked brow and half smile as I take a sip from my glass. “In short, cut the bullshit.”
He laughs, leaning back in his chair. “You’re writing them for you, not me.”
My jaw tightens and my heart starts to race. Is he implying what I think he’s implying?
“I’m writing them for the congregation,” I reply proudly.
There’s another low chuckle before he shakes his head. “Smart-ass.”
“Well, what are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say that…” He swirls his whiskey in the glass before throwing it back and emptying the contents. Here it comes. If I’m reading the situation correctly, my father is about to offer me the position I’ve been waiting for.
“I think your talents would be better suited for your own ventures. We’re giving the sermon-writing job back to Mark.”
There’s a beat of silence as I stare at him, waiting for the punch line of this joke.
My mouth goes dry, and suddenly, I realize my leg is bouncing. We sit in tense silence for a moment longer as his words fill the room like noxious gas.
“Your writing is so good, Adam, and I hate to see you waste that energy on sermons. Why don’t you work on your book? Or write for the podcast again.”
My knee is bouncing like crazy now. “Everyone loves the sermons. They relate torealpeople andrealissues. No offense, but Mark’s sermons are based on antiquated values.”
“Mark’s sermons are based on the scripture.”
“And mine aren’t?”
His brow furrows, but he stays silent.
He can’t be serious. This can’t be happening, but I bite back my surprise. I refuse to let my father see me falter.
A familiar feeling starts to resurface. Something I’ve buried deep for years—my whole life maybe. I’m sure it has a name. Resentment. Bitterness. Spite. But I’ve never voiced it, and I've never paid it much attention.
Not sincethatnight.
He’s my father. He provides for me and my brothers and has for years, but there’s a price for the luxury of his love, and that price is my pride.
“I’m just thinking about what’s best for the church, Adam,” he says in a casual tone with complete disregard for how this actually makes me feel. “Use this as an opportunity to focus on more important aspects of your career. Did you really plan on writing my sermons for the rest of your life?”
As I let out my next breath, it sounds a bit too much like a disgruntled sigh, but I don’t respond. He stands from his seat and goes back over to the whiskey bottle on the drink cart, he keeps talking, but I’m no longer listening.
Something dark and sinister stirs around in my brain.
I wish I could call him an asshole to his face. I think about what it might feel like to sock him square in the nose with my fist. I imagine how delightful it might feel to see him cry or beg for mercy.
These thoughts are vile, and I should feel ashamed.
Ishould, but I don’t.
I just do what I’ve always done when these malicious thoughts and visions surface, I quickly shove them back down. I bury them right along with the memories that triggered them in the first place.
My unfocused gaze is on his desk, but I’m not reading a word typed on the mess of pages. Not until I spot the wordDeed. My thoughts quiet, and my eyes focus.
