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Pushinghim to recite the “keep your cool” mantra seemed ridiculous.Imight be mature for my age, but he was still my father.Heshould be teaching me life lessons about rising above it, not the other way around.
“Remember, if they get agitated, leave.Don’tsay anything stupid, okay?”
Dadwaved a dismissive hand. “You’rejust like your mother.Sheused to worry too much.”
That’sbecause you talk too much,Iwanted to shout.BringingMomup in this inopportune time did nothing except sour my mood.
AfterDad’srapid rise to success,Momfound herself in a glamorous world she didn’t fit into.Sheoften missed the simplicity of farm life, and her only joy came from her sons.Butwe got sidetracked by the attention we received in high school for our achievements in science and technology.Girlsthrew themselves at us even though we were only fourteen.Ourextracurriculars were extensive.Suddenly, numerous invites to the headmaster’s inner circle, interviews for magazine articles, and fancy dinners were thrown in our honor.Thosethings gaveMomcrippling anxiety, but she attended to be supportive.Theacademic society judged her for her ‘farm’ accent, not having a higher education, her taste in clothes, and even her vocabulary.Shehad no friends, only frenemies, theMeanMomsof other overachieving students.Theytaunted her passive-aggressively for being different.Momturned to prescription drugs to cope, eventually overdosing.
Noone knew of her struggles becauseMomnever burdened us with her problems.Sheused to begCadenand me to stay home for dinner or to spend time with her, but we always had something more important on the schedule.Wewere selfish pricks.Weshould’ve spent time with our mother instead of dragging her into our world where she didn’t fit in.WheneverIthought about it,IgaveDadfree rein to do as he pleased.Afterall, we were the reason he lost his wife.Iowed him.
Dadknew howCadenandIfelt and had no problem exploiting our guilt.
Iswerved onto the empty street, determined to get through this ordeal while keeping a watchful eye on my impulsive father.Webooked a hotel five minutes from theAmbaniresidence, butIdrove slowly to prolong the inevitable.
“Everythingwill be fine,”Dadinsisted whileIshook my head.
Wewere met with bumper-to-bumper traffic once we reached the long driveway toAmbani’sgiant mansion.Hundredsof cars flooded onto the property, and though the house sat on numerous acres, parking was limited.
Iwasn’t bothered by it.Theguest count gave me solace becauseDadmight be able to blend into the crowd without attracting attention.
“Rememberour conversation,”Ispoke absentmindedly while searching for a parking spot.
Oncemore,Dadpromised to be on his best behavior.He’ddrop off the gifts, pay his respects, and leave without making a scene.Ifit were anyone butJoeMaxwell,I’dbelieve it to be a doable task.
Sincemost of the guests had parked along the long driveway, and the valet service was bombarded by the excess cars,Ihad to pull up closer to the house and create a makeshift parking spot.
Whatever.Weweren’t planning on staying long, andIwas in clear view of the wake to keep an eye onDad.
Theentrance to the wake was marked by two large shepherd’s hooks with white twills and lilies hanging off them.Itwas a simple yet elegant way of directing the hushed guests to the gardens.Therewas a welcome table displaying photos ofJayAmbaniwith his family and a small guestbook.Whitebanquet tables with modest centerpieces and garden chairs were spread across the lawn.Serversin black vests walked around with hors d'oeuvres and drinks.Whiteroses made their sporadic presence known.Itwas an elaborate affair, yet theAmbanis’ trained event planners made it appear effortlessly tasteful and appropriately somber for the sad occasion.
Withhis arms weighed down by gift baskets,Dadmade his way to the lawn and disbursed into the crowd.Hopefully, he’d speak to one of the more forgivingAmbanis, share his condolences, and leave without making a peep.Ileaned against the rental car and watched more guests trickle onto the lawn.Theymade consecutive lines to pay their respects to each family member.TheAmbaniswere easy to spot as they were dressed in white today.
Thecrowd parted, leaving an unmistakable loner in the middle.PoppyAmbani’spetite frame was dwarfed by the grieving adults surrounding her.Shewas dressed in white, a long tunic of sorts with leggings.Herhair was spun over her head, and her face was fresh with no makeup.Shelooked like an entirely different person, all except the brown eyes.
Iremembered watching those eyes whenDadpractically called her a bastard in front of her relatives.Itmade me wishIhad never created the stupid algorithm or letDaduse the product to further his gains.Imust’ve replayed the moment a thousand times in my head, thinking of a million different scenarios whereIcomforted the kid instead of letting her run away.Ikept expecting her to break down in tears afterDad’shorrid accusations, but there was no emotion in her eyes.Blank.Thoseeyes were still wide and inexpressive, except there was now a hint of sorrowPoppycouldn’t hide.
DidIcause that?Wasit the aftereffect of my father’s ambitions, whichIbacked with my stupid algorithm?
Thepit of guilt harboring inside me returned like a storm.Poppywas the same age as me whenIlostMom.Ifthe situation were reversed,Iwould hate the people who humiliated my dying mother.Ididn’t want to be the cause of that kid’s sadness.Thesame helplessnessIfelt atMom’sfuneral ate at me because there was nothingIcould do to takePoppy’spain away.
Istared at her momentarily, then moved closer.Ipromised myselfIwas merely here asDad’schauffeur to keep him in check.Insteadof entering the manicured garden,Isought refuge under a large tree.IwatchedJayAmbani’sdaughter from the shadows, surveying how she grieved her late father.
Poppystood on her own like a statue, a dignified face of solemn beauty as she stared into nothingness.Occasionally, people came up to speak to her.Sheaccepted their condolences with her back rod straight.Shedidn’t shed one measly tear.Therewere no expressions on her face, nor was she entertaining herself with her phone or chit-chatting with others.
Iwatched asPiyaAmbaniwalked toPoppy.Redeyes brimming with tears,Mrs.Ambanileaned over and huggedPoppytightly, her face pressed into the young girl's hair.Icould tell she wanted to comfort her daughter, but it was impossible to do so with someone as frugal with their feelings asPoppy.Poppystood motionless in her mother’s embrace untilPiyareleased her.Then, she walked away, her footsteps inaudible from this distance.
IwatchedPoppygo, my heart squeezing becauseIknew the feeling.Shewas drowning in sorrow but didn’t know how to express it.Itwas lonely.
Ididn’t know what to make ofPoppy.Itwasn’t like she was so scarred she’d do something stupid likeMom, right?Otherkids dealt with losing a parent, albeit it wasn’t as dramatic as what happened toPoppyor specifically whatwedid toPoppy.
Thepit in my stomach grew, andIfollowed her, keeping a respectful distance as she walked along the back of the house.Anequally manicured garden rested on the other side of their mansion, though this one lacked guests.Poppystood in a pool of light, the air heavy with grief and loss.Shelooked up, taking a deep breath of the crisp, fresh air.
Whywas she grieving alone instead of with her family?Wasit because she was too numb to share her sorrow with others?
Orperhaps it was because she was the future face ofAmbaniCorpand had to maintain a façade?Ialso acted a certain way in public, knowing what my future held.Inthe oddest way,PoppyandIshared a commonality no one else could understand.
Therewas an urge to reach out and comfort her.Withher back to me,Poppyhad no ideaIwas there.Istill wanted her to know she wasn’t alone in this.Unthinking,Itook a few steps forward.Smalltwigs crunched under my feet, snappingPoppyout of her reverie.Shetwisted her neck to the side, butItook cover behind a tree.Iwas positivePoppyheard me.Themoment stood still asIwaited for her reaction.Whenit didn’t come,Ipeeked between the branches and realizedPoppyhad returned to her former stance.
