I didn’t want to ruin her day. So I raised my glass and replied simply,
“May you be happy. That’s all that matters.”
Clara nodded, but her gaze lingered on me longer than usual. She must have noticed the blush on my cheek.
I didn’t stay long after the ceremony. I went to my room, packed my things, and left without saying goodbye. In the taxi, gazing at the city lights, I swore to myself that I would never again allow anyone—not even my parents—to treat me as if I had any moral obligation to their ambitions.
I wasn’t a bank, or an investor, or a bottomless pit. I was their son, and that should be worth more than any apartment.
But instead of tears, a cold, mathematical thought occurred to me: if they thought I should “share my success,” then I would share the truth. The whole truth. Without hiding anything. Without shame. Without protection.
