At 32, My Father Mocked My Career As A Consultant, But When His Failing…

The Office on the 47th Floor

We strolled out to the driveway where Andrew’s black Mercedes and Rachel’s Audi were parked alongside my 12-year-old Honda Accord.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,”

I told them.

“Don’t be,”

Rachel firmly stated.

“He deserved it.”

“Still,”

I said,

“Family is complicated.”

“Speaking of which,”

Andrew stated cautiously,

“About the restructuring plans for the Parker and Sons subsidiary…”

“Don’t fire him,”

I responded instantly. Andrew lifted his eyebrow.

“Don’t fire my dad or my brothers,”

I clarified.

“Keep them right where they are. Same positions, same pay.”

“Ethan, your dad just…”

“I understand what he did, but my mother does not deserve to lose her house because her husband is a reed, and my brothers have spouses, children, and mortgages.”

I shake my head.

“I did not do this to ruin their finances. I did it to make a point.”

Victoria wondered what the message was.

“That success isn’t one-size-fits-all. That real work comes in many forms, and that maybe, just maybe, he should have believed in his son.”

Andrew gave me a long look, then grinned slightly.

“You’re a better man than I would be in your position.”

“Maybe. Or perhaps I’m simply weary of being furious.”

“For what it’s worth,”

Rachel replied,

“Your father was mistaken. What you created was remarkable. The transaction netted Stratton $53 million in the first year alone. When Andrew departs, the board refers to you as the heir apparent.”

“I appreciate it.”

Although Andrew said with a chuckle,

“You probably could have told us this was your family before we walked into an ambush.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

We spoke for a few more minutes about work: Q4 estimates, the Christmas party next month—regular and professional topics. The type of conversation I had every day with people who valued what I did.

They departed at 7:35 p.m. I sat in my Honda for a long time, admiring the warm light from my parents’ home and listening to the muted sounds of conversation within.

My phone vibrated, indicating a text message from Michael.

“Can we talk?”

I typed back:

“Not tonight.”

Another buzz. Chris.

“I apologize. I should have said something.”

I did not react to that one. A third buzz. My mother.

“Please come back inside. Your father wants to talk.”

I started the engine and drove off. The following day, my phone would not stop ringing.

I ignored most of the calls, but I ultimately listened to the voicemails. My father’s voice was shaking.

“Hey Ethan, I’m not sure what to say. I was mistaken. I was mistaken. Please call back. We need to talk.”

My mother:

“Sweetheart, your dad is distraught. He’s been up all night. Please give him an opportunity to apologize appropriately.”

Uncle John:

“Hello, Ethan. Listen, your father phoned me this morning. He’s a disaster. I know he was harsh on you yesterday, but give him some slack. He’s proud, you know. It’s difficult for guys like us to confess our mistakes.”

I removed them all.

A New Foundation

A week later, my father arrived at my office. Gloria Martinez, my executive assistant with 28 years of expertise who manages my calendar like a military operation, buzzed me.

“Mr. Parker, there is a Robert Parker here to see you. He does not have an appointment.”

“Send him in.”

My father stepped into my office and paused—just paused and stared. The office was on the 47th story of the Columbia Center in Seattle with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Puget Sound, original artwork on the walls, and a custom-made desk from Italy.

All tailored to reflect precisely what I had accomplished.

“Jesus,”

he muttered.

“Have a seat, Dad.”

He sat in one of the leather seats across from my desk, looking tiny and out of place. With his work boots on the polished hardwood floor and his plaid shirt in a location built for suits and silk ties.

“I came to apologize,”

he explained.

“Okay.”

“That’s everything? Just okay?”

“Dad, what do you want me to say? That everything is okay and that you did not spend 32 years making me feel inadequate?”

He flinched.

“I never meant…”

“Yes, you did. You definitely meant it. You always meant it. That is the problem.”

“You always introduced me to someone as ‘my son the consultant’ in that tone, as if it were a terrible word. Every time you compliment Chris and Michael on their real jobs while dismissing my efforts.”

“You always made it plain that until I was working with my hands, I wasn’t actually working.”

“I didn’t understand what you were doing,”

he said gently.

“You did not strive to comprehend. There is a difference.”

He remained quiet for a long time.

“Then you’re correct. I did not try. I was… I was threatened. I felt intimidated by you, by what you were doing, and by the fact that you were doing something I didn’t comprehend, which meant you were entering a world I couldn’t follow.”

He massaged his face with both hands.

“Your brothers are doing what I did—building. I get it. I can provide them advice and share my expertise. But you went someplace I couldn’t go, and instead of taking pride in that, I was unkind.”

I finished,

“Yeah, I was cruel.”

I leaned back in my chair, staring at this man who had appeared like a giant to me as a youngster. So powerful and sure of himself; now he merely seemed exhausted.

“Did you know?”

I asked.

“On my 16th birthday, you told me I’d never amount to anything because I preferred reading to working on construction sites.”

“Jesus, Ethan.”

“Or when I got accepted to UW with a scholarship, you said college was a waste of time for someone like me.”

“I was wrong.”

“Or when I told you about my first client, you laughed and said I’d be bankrupt in six months.”

He didn’t answer; just sat there and took it. I kept waiting—waiting for the time when you’d finally say, “I’m proud of you, son.”

But it never came. Not even when I got my 50th customer.

Not when Forbes featured my firm in an article on creative companies. Not when I sold the firm for enough money to retire at 30.

Nothing I accomplished was ever sufficient.

“Because I’m an idiot,”

he answered slowly.

“Because I’m a stupid, stubborn old man who doesn’t know how to say the things he should say.”

“That’s not good enough, Dad.”

“I know.”

He glanced at me with burning eyes.

“I know it isn’t, but I’m going to say it anyway. I am proud of you. I’m proud of what you created. I am proud of the guy you have become, and I apologize. I’m really sorry I waited until you humiliated me in front of the entire family before admitting it.”

The hush stretched between us.

“What do you want from me?”

I asked finally.

“A chance,”

he said.

“A chance to do better, to be better. To actually be the father you deserved instead of the one you got.”

I stared out the window at the Seattle cityscape, the gray waters of Puget Sound, and the mountains in the distance.

“I don’t know if I can do that,”

I said honestly.

“I don’t know if I can just forgive 32 years because you finally realized you were wrong.”

“I am not seeking for forgiveness, not yet. I’m only asking for an opportunity to earn it.”

I turned around to face him.

“What does that look like?”

“I do not know. Maybe… maybe Sunday meals for you and me. It’s just us. There are no brothers, uncles, or audience. Just two people eating and conversing.”

“I’d want to hear about your job. Really. No, I don’t want to judge it. I want to understand what my son does.”

“And if I say no?”

“I will understand. But I’ll keep trying, because you’re my son and I love you, and I should have said that a hell of a lot more than I did.”

I sat with it for a while.

“One supper,”

I eventually answered.

“One Sunday dinner. You ask real questions. You truly listen. You don’t compare what I do to construction or say I should do something different.”

“If you can do that, if you can get through one meal without making me feel inadequate, perhaps we can try again.”

He nodded, relieved expression on his face.

“I can do that.”

“And Dad? If you embarrass me like that again, we’re done. I don’t care if you are family. I do not care if Mom begs. We’re finished.”

“Understood.”

“Understood.”

He stood to go and halted at the door.

“That thing you said at Thanksgiving,”

he recalled,

“About making more last year than I’ll make in my career. How about… was this true?”

“Yeah, it was true.”

He nodded slowly.

“Jesus. Then excellent for you, son. Sincerely good for you.”

After he departed, I stayed in my office for a while, watching the sun set over the ocean. Gloria buzzed me.

“Mr. Parker, it’s 4:00 p.m. Is here?”

“Send them in.”

And I returned to work. My father may finally be learning to appreciate this type of work.