The Call That Destroyed My Father Chapter 01
My father’s phone was charging in the living room when it rang, and he asked me to answer it for him.
I took it off the charger and glanced at the bathroom door.
It was closed.
“Hello, is this Richard Warren’s phone?”
“He’s in the shower. I’m his daughter. Who’s calling?”
“This is Guest Relations at The Marlowe Grand Resort. We’re doing a routine follow-up on your stay in our family suite last weekend.”
“We just wanted to check whether your 3-year-old brother had any further reaction to the peanut-free snacks we provided.”
I went still.
My father was 55.
My mother was 52.
I was their only child, and I was 24.
Last weekend, my father had told my mother he was going to Chicago for a closed-door architecture conference.
The bathroom door opened.
My father walked out in a robe.
“Who was that?”
My hand was still shaking.
“Just a telemarketer.” I forced my voice to stay calm. “I hung up for you.”
My father nodded.
He walked to the vanity, grabbed his moisturizer, and rubbed it on with practiced ease.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked, looking at me.
“She went to the grocery store,” I said. “She said you had a long trip, so she’s making pot roast tonight.”
I stared at him.
“Your mom still knows how to take care of me.” My father smiled. “3 straight days of meetings in Chicago wore me out.”
The Marlowe Grand Resort’s family suite was not in Chicago.
It was right here in our city, in the Eastlake Resort District.
“Dad.”
He looked over. “What is it?”
“When you were in Chicago, which hotel did you stay at?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “My company has a retreat next month, and I wanted some ideas.”
His hand paused for half a second.
“Just some business hotel the organizers booked. Nothing special.”
“If you go again, I’ll book you somewhere better. Don’t stay in a place like that.”
He was lying.
I didn’t press him.
I turned and left the primary bedroom.
Back in my room, I opened my phone and pulled up the statement for his second credit card.
I studied accounting, and a lot of the family’s electronic bills were linked to my email.
I opened last month’s credit card statement and scrolled through it one charge at a time.
Last Saturday, there was a charge for $1,200.
Merchant: The Marlowe Grand Resort Dining and Entertainment.
And it wasn’t just last weekend.
On the 14th of last month, Valentine’s Day, there was a charge for $3,500.
Merchant: Harrington Jewelers.
My mom got nothing but a small bouquet that day.
I sank into my chair.
The front door opened. My mother had come home with grocery bags.
“Richard! Claire! Can someone help me with these bags?” Her voice sounded bright.
I took a deep breath and opened my door.
My father had already stepped forward and taken the grocery bags from her hands.
“Why did you buy so much? These bags are heavy.” His tone was full of affection. “Next time, wait for me. We’ll go together.”
“I was worried you’d be too tired.” My mother smiled as she changed her shoes. “And Claire loves my pot roast.”
Watching them act like the perfect couple made me sick.
At dinner, my father kept putting food on my mother’s plate.
“Chicago was so dry. I got you those imported vitamins you like.” My father pointed to the gift box on the table. “Have Claire help you sort them tomorrow.”
My mother kept saying he wasted money.
After dinner, my father went to the study to handle emails.
I brought him a plate of sliced fruit as an excuse to go in.
He was typing at his computer.
“Dad, I brought you some fruit.” I set the plate down.
“Dad.” I stayed in front of his desk. “I saw a story online today.”
“What story?”
“A man had a whole other family behind his wife’s back. He even had a child with another woman.” I stared into his eyes. “When his wife found out, his career and reputation were destroyed.”
My father lifted his head and looked at me.
“Claire, what are you trying to say?”
I met his gaze.
“Secrets don’t stay buried forever. Right, Dad?”
My father smiled.
“The internet loves making up stories like that for attention,” he said calmly. “You just graduated. Stop reading that nonsense and focus on work.”
“But…”
“This isn’t up for discussion.” His voice dropped.
He planted both hands on the desk and looked at me.
“This doesn’t concern you. Do you understand?”
I looked at him.
“I understand,” I said quietly.
The next day was Saturday. My father said he had to work late at the office.
The moment he left, I took a cab to The Marlowe Grand Resort.
I walked up to the front desk.
“Hi. I’d like to check the stay record for Richard Warren from last weekend.”
I handed over my ID.
“I’m his daughter. He left something here.”
“Who else checked in with him?”
