Part 4 — On My Thirtieth Birthday They Began Humiliating Me, But One Call from Father Made Him Lose All Color

“Your father, David Beridze,” Nina said.

Father did not move.

Neither did Mother.

Rachel blinked only once, as if hoping she had understood incorrectly.

I sat and looked at the man whom I had called Father my whole life.

“Grandfather died in the hospital,” I told him. “You were there.”

“That means nothing.”

“The accountant said he received orders from the person who entered the ward with you that night.”

“The accountant is frightened. He will say anything to save himself.”

Nina placed another sheet of paper on the table.

“He did not give us only verbal testimony. He handed over the hospital parking recording, electronic letters, and three telephone conversations.”

Father looked at the paper.

His face slowly lost its color.

“You will not dare.”

“We already dared,” I told him.

At that moment several calls came to my phone at once. The bank. The foundation’s security service. A police investigator.

Father tried to leave the room.

Two uniformed officers stood at the door.

One of them calmly said:

“Mr. Beridze, we have several questions for you.”

“I will call a lawyer.”

“Of course.”

Father took out his phone and dialed the first number. After a few seconds a voice was heard, and then his face collapsed even further.

“What do you mean, you no longer represent my interests?”

The lawyer’s answer could be heard by everyone in the room because Father had accidentally turned on the speaker.

“Mr. Beridze, I am withdrawing from your case. I received the documents this morning and can no longer hide them.”

The call ended.

Father stared at the phone as if he were seeing it in his hand for the first time.

Then the police played the recording.

Father heard his own voice right there:

“She must not understand anything before turning thirty.”

His own voice.

His own laughter.

His words that I had to be kept poor.

Father’s jaw tightened.

“This has been taken out of context.”

“No,” Nina said. “This is exactly what you said.”

The police officer took out handcuffs.

Rachel burst into tears.

“Father, tell me this is not true.”

Father looked at her.

“Be quiet.”

“You said Anna was simply too sensitive!”

“I said be quiet!”

But it was already too late. Everyone heard every word.

Jake took out his phone and called someone.

“My account is frozen. They want to take the car. Tell me this is temporary!”

After the answer, he lowered his eyes.

“What did you say? There are also loans in my name?”

Mother sat down on the chair. Her designer bag fell to the floor, a small cosmetics mirror fell out of it, and cracked.

I did not feel like a beggar.

On the contrary.

For the first time, I did not need to save anyone.

That night I left the restaurant alone. The cold November air stood outside. Wet leaves clung to my shoes on the sidewalk. When I reached the car, I took Grandfather’s copper pocket watch from my pocket.

Click.

Click.

Grandfather had given it to me on my birthday and told me that the watch counted not only time, but also people’s patience.

That night I became convinced for the first time that my patience had ended.

The next morning Father called me from prison.

There was no anger in his voice anymore. Only fear.

“Anna, please change your statement. I will explain everything.”

“I already know everything.”

“I was doing this for the family.”

“No. You were doing it for power.”

“You are my daughter.”

“That is why it hurts me more that you made the choice so easily.”

“You can save me.”

I was silent for a long time.

Before, at times like this, I agreed. I forgot his harsh words. I covered Rachel’s debts. I solved Jake’s problems. I even forgave Mark’s deceptions.

But that day I understood one thing.

Saving someone from the consequences of their actions is not love.

“No, Father,” I said calmly. “This time they themselves will explain to you what your decisions mean.”

I ended the call.

Mark messaged me that same day.

First an apology.

Then an explanation.

Then a letter saying that my father had forced him.

Finally, only one sentence: “We can still start over.”

I did not delete his message.

I simply did not answer.

Three weeks later I saw him at the preliminary court hearing. He was no longer wearing the expensive jacket with which he had always tried to make an impression as a successful man. His hands were folded on his knees.

The audio recording was played again.

This time he heard everything from beginning to end.

My father’s words.

Rachel’s laughter.

His own voice when he said that my signature would be enough.

Mark raised his head and looked at me.

“Did I really say that?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot remember.”

“But I remember.”

That was the only answer I could give.

In the following months, the investigation confirmed everything. Father had transferred the foundation’s funds to a secret company and then covered the family’s expenses with that money. Rachel had participated in the deliberate falsification of documents. Jake knew the money came illegally, but continued to accept it.

I did not make their guilt heavier.

They themselves created the life in which they now had to answer.

I finally ended my relationship with Mark.

Not because he had hurt me the most.

Because when he had to make a choice, he chose comfort instead of me.

Two months later I opened a small office in the northern part of Chicago. I continued managing Grandfather’s foundation from there, but changed its name. The new foundation helped young women who hid their abilities because of their families.

The first employee was a twenty-two-year-old girl who was told every day at work that finances were not women’s business.

One morning she left a small drawing on my desk. In the drawing, a woman stood at an open door, holding a small watch in her hand.

“This is you,” she told me.

“Why a watch?”

“Because you know when it is time to leave.”

I smiled.

That evening the first snow came.

My apartment was still small, but now it was truly mine. I placed Grandfather’s copper watch on the windowsill. On the wall there was no longer the family photograph in which everyone was smiling and I was standing in the back corner.

In place of that photograph, I hung the young employee’s drawing.

Several days later Mark sent me his final message.

“I have changed. If you are ever ready, just call me.”

I put the phone on the table.

This time I did answer.

“You may have changed. But I have already chosen another life. Please do not call me again.”

I was not crying.

I was not angry.

I was simply calm.

That night I took the watch in my hand and remembered Grandfather’s old words: “Patience also has an end.”

I went to the window. Snow descended slowly in the streetlights. For the first time, the city did not seem like a large and cold place to me. It was simply a city where I no longer expected permission from anyone.

The watch warmed in my palm.

Click.

Click.

Time was still moving.

This time for me.