I was away on a business trip when my wife called out of the blue to tell me she was selling my father's restaurant.
"Julian Dickerson, I've already decided to transfer the restaurant to someone else. A hundred and eighty thousand dollars."
I froze for two seconds, then demanded to know why she hadn't discussed something this major with me first.
Her answer came without a shred of guilt. "I'm the legal representative of the restaurant. I have every right to make this call."
"Your father said the same thing when he was alive."
"A hundred and eighty thousand is a fair price. If I think it's reasonable, I'm selling it. What's the problem?"
She hung up before I could respond.
I called back. Her phone was off.
My whole body shook with anger. I sent her a message.
Meg, if you actually sell that restaurant...
We're done. I'm filing for divorce.
……
I canceled every meeting on my schedule and caught the next flight home.
I landed at five in the afternoon and went straight for a cab.
I tried calling her on the way. Still off.
When I reached our building, I was about to head inside when I spotted a black Mercedes parked right outside the entrance.
Meg Henson was sitting in the passenger seat, smiling, talking to whoever was behind the wheel.
I stepped back behind the row of parcel lockers.
The driver was a man I'd never seen before. Mid-thirties.
He rested his arm on the window frame and smiled. "So we're all set on that deal?"
Meg nodded.
"Don't worry. Julian's away on business. He won't be back for a week."
"You sure he won't cause trouble? It's his father's place, after all."
Meg let out a cold laugh. "I'm the legal representative. I sell it if I want to sell it. Nobody can stop me."
"Besides, his father said it himself when he was alive—the restaurant was mine to manage."
"Julian's never around anyway, always off on some trip. What's he going to say?"
"Worst case, we get divorced."
The man laughed. "Then we're good."
Meg laughed too, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek.
He pulled her closer, and the two of them started making out right there in the car.
My knuckles went white around the handle of my suitcase.
They exchanged a few more words, and then the man drove off.
Meg grabbed her purse and walked into the building, her heels clicking sharply against the tile. Clack. Clack. Clack.
I stepped out from behind the lockers and stood downstairs. I lit a cigarette.
The early March wind still had a bite to it. Ash scattered from the tip and settled on the toe of my shoe.
I stared at that tiny smear of gray and thought of my father in his final days, lying in that hospital bed, gripping my hand.
"Son, I'm leaving the restaurant in your wife's hands. Don't overthink it."
"You're too busy with work to split your attention. She's got ambition—she's always wanted to be involved in running the place. Don't let this come between you two."
I told him I understood.
He wheezed for a long time, then added, "It's good that your wife has ideas. But remember—that restaurant is our family's foundation."
I nodded.
Three days later, he was gone.
I kept vigil at the funeral home all night. Meg stayed by my side the entire time, crying harder than anyone.
Back then, I thought my father had been right about her.
Now, looking back? What a goddamn joke.
I dragged my suitcase out of the complex and found a small restaurant on the street.
I ordered four dishes and two bottles of baijiu.
The owner came over to pour water, glanced at my suitcase, and didn't ask questions.
The food arrived. I didn't touch a bite. I poured a glass and downed it first.
The liquor burned its way down, and my eyes stung.
My mother left when I was three.
My father never remarried. He started with a street stall, getting up at three every morning, pushing a cart to the wholesale market for ingredients.
In winter, his hands cracked and bled from the cold. In summer, the skin peeled off his back from the sun.
Eight years of that before he saved enough to rent his first storefront.
Another ten before he owned all three floors of the building.
He had no hobbies his entire life. All he ever loved was standing over that stove.
