My Wife Said I Was “Difficult” At Christmas – Then My Son Called At 12:01 AM: What The Hell Is On…

“This is a billion-dollar idea. This is industry-changing. How long have you been working on this?” He asked. “Eight months, give or take,” I replied.

He laughed, but it wasn’t a normal laugh. It was shocked, almost breathless. “You built this in eight months by yourself?”

“It’s not that complicated. The core principles are solid. I just needed to translate them into modern technology,” I explained. David leaned back in his chair.

“Robert, I know people. Venture capitalists, tech investors. Can I show this to them?” I shrugged. What did I have to lose?

My family thought I was obsolete anyway. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

That was three weeks ago. David moved fast and connected me with a firm called Apex Ventures based in Toronto. They specialized in construction technology, and they were very interested—very interested.

We had meetings where they asked technical questions, business questions, and market questions. I answered them all. I’d spent 35 years in this industry, and I knew the market better than most people half my age.

They wanted to move forward and invest. But more than that, they wanted to acquire the technology outright. They offered to buy the platform, hire me as chief technical adviser, and fast-track development.

The number they mentioned made me dizzy. It was seven figures just for the initial buyout, with more to come if the platform performed as expected. I didn’t tell Margaret, and I didn’t tell the kids.

What would I say? “Hey, remember how you think I’m difficult and out of touch? Well, I just built something that might change an entire industry.” They’d probably think I was having delusions.

So I kept quiet. I worked with the lawyers, signed the papers, and set up the deal. It would be finalized and announced on December 26th, Boxing Day.

A Quiet Christmas and the Boxing Day Revelation

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Christmas arrived, and Margaret left for the cottage on the 23rd with luggage for both of them even though I wouldn’t be there. “Just in case you change your mind,” she said.

But we both knew I wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to show up uninvited to my own family Christmas. Trevor called me on Christmas Eve.

“Hey Dad, just wanted to say Merry Christmas.” He said. “Merry Christmas, son. You doing okay?” I asked.

“Mom said you decided not to come.” He mentioned. Decided—that was one way to put it.

“I’m fine. Enjoy the cottage,” I said. “Yeah,” there was awkward silence.

“Maybe next year, right?” He asked. “Maybe,” I replied.

After we hung up, I sat in my living room with a glass of scotch. The house was decorated. Margaret had insisted on the tree, the lights, and the whole production even though I’d be spending Christmas alone.

It felt like a museum exhibit: Traditional Canadian Christmas, circa 2024. I wasn’t angry, and that surprised me. I thought I’d be furious, bitter, and resentful.

But mostly I just felt calm—peaceful, even. For the first time in months, nobody was disappointed in me. Nobody was sighing when I spoke or exchanging glances when I offered an opinion.

It was just me, my thoughts, and the quiet hum of the refrigerator. I spent Christmas Day working in my basement, refining some technical details of the platform. The deal would close tomorrow, and I wanted everything perfect.

Around noon I made myself a sandwich—turkey and cranberry sauce, because tradition still mattered even if family didn’t. At exactly 12 minutes past midnight, transitioning from Christmas to Boxing Day, my phone rang. It was Trevor.

“Dad?” His voice was strange, higher than usual, and shaking. “What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?” I asked.

“Dad, what the hell?” He wasn’t making sense. “What did you do?” He asked.

My heart started racing. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Your name is on the news. The CBC News app just sent a notification. It says ‘Robert William Harrison, Toronto civil engineer, has sold groundbreaking construction technology platform to Apex Ventures for…'” He stopped. “Dad, it says $8.5 million.”

I sat down. I’d known the announcement was coming, but I hadn’t realized it would be immediate. “Midnight on Boxing Day,” they’d said, and they’d been literal.

“Oh,” I said. Trevor’s voice cracked.

“Dad, what is this? Is this real?” He asked. “It’s real,” I replied.

“You sold something for $8.5 million?” He asked. “Initial buyout. There’s more if performance targets are met. Could be up to 20 million over five years.”

Silence followed. “I need to call you back,” he said and hung up.

Thirty seconds later Emma called, then Margaret, then Trevor again. My phone didn’t stop ringing for the next hour. I let most of them go to voicemail because I wasn’t ready to talk, not yet.

The next morning I woke up to 47 text messages, 12 voicemails, and six emails. Most were from family members, some were from old colleagues who’d seen the news, and a few were from journalists asking for interviews. Margaret came home that afternoon, alone.

She walked into the house without knocking, even though technically she’d left me here by myself. “Robert,” she just stood there in the doorway.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked. “Tell you what?” I asked.

“Don’t play games. The technology, the deal, any of it.” She said. I looked at her, really looked at her.

She was wearing the sweater I’d bought her last Christmas, the one she’d thanked me for but never worn until now. “Would you have been interested?” I asked.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “That’s not fair,” she said.

“Isn’t it? When was the last time anyone in this family asked what I was working on? When was the last time anyone cared about my opinion unless it was to tell me I was wrong?” I asked.

“You could have said something,” she argued. “I did say things. I said a lot of things.”

“I had opinions and ideas and thoughts, and everyone—including you—made it very clear that those things weren’t welcome anymore.” Margaret sat down. She looked tired.

“The kids feel terrible,” she said. “I’m sure they do,” I replied.

“Trevor is devastated. He says he had no idea you were working on something so important.” She said. “He wouldn’t have cared if he did know. Eight months ago when I told him I was learning to code, he laughed.”

“He made a joke about teaching old dogs new tricks,” I reminded her. “He didn’t mean—” she started.

“Yes, he did. Emma made jokes too. And you, Margaret? You told people at your book club that I was going through a phase.” I said. “That I was having some kind of late-life crisis, playing on the computer instead of accepting retirement.”

She flinched. “Someone told you that?” She asked.

“Linda Morrison. She thought I should know. She also thought it was cruel.” I replied. Margaret was crying now, not dramatically, just quiet tears running down her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For what specifically?” I asked.

“For not listening. For not taking you seriously. For thinking—” she wiped her eyes. “For thinking you were just my old stubborn husband who couldn’t adapt to how things are now.”

“I am old,” I said. “And stubborn. But I’m not obsolete. I never was.”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “You’re not.”