I sat at my desk, a half-empty cup beside me, a basket full of pens and paper clips near my elbow. A framed photo of my wife, Emily Suzanne, and our son, Mark Marten, sat in the corner. Paperwork covered every inch of the surface, but I didn't mind. After all, I was the manager of the most successful company in America.
The clock ticked on—each second deliberate, steady. A soft breeze drifted in through the open window. It felt like the world exhaling. I reached for a pen and signed a few more documents, then left the rest for tomorrow. It was nearly 9 p.m.
Standing up, I opened the office door, hoping—no, expecting—that my son wouldn't disappoint me again tonight.
Down the stairs, into my car, and through the silent streets. I arrived at my house—no, calling it a house was wrong. It was a mansion. Towering trees lined the drive like loyal guards.
As I walked toward the front door, I spotted my dog bounding toward me. Her name was Lia, but I preferred calling her Nana. It sounded cuter.
"Nana! Come here," I called.
She ran toward me, tail wagging like mad. Maybe she loved me. Maybe she just thought I had treats. Either way, I knelt down and petted her.
"Good girl," I murmured.
She looked happy. That was enough. Joy was simple for her. She didn't need to earn it. I stood up again, taking in the sight of the life I'd built—every brick, every tree, every polished tile earned through one principle: perfection. I didn't tolerate mistakes. Not in my company. Not in my home.
I entered through the grand doors. The maids froze when they saw me. One of them looked like she'd just stopped laughing. I walked past them, silent. Their fear meant they understood. That was how order stayed intact.
In the dining room, I took my seat. Moments later, Emily approached and gently placed a hand on my shoulder.
"How was your day, John?" she asked.
She usually called me 'honey.' Odd.
"As good as every day," I replied.
She sat across from me, visibly tense.
Then Mark appeared. He didn't say hello. Not even a glance. He was nervous too.
What was going on tonight?
I narrowed my eyes. "That's right, Mark. Did you get your grades?"
He flinched. Did I say something wrong?
Emily reached into her bag and handed me a folded paper. Her voice was barely audible. "These are Mark's grades."
I took the paper, keeping my eyes on Mark. His head was down.
I unfolded it, scanning the numbers. Then I saw it—Math: 98%.
"How did you get this grade in math?" I snapped. "Ninety-eight percent? Where did the other two go?"
Mark said nothing, only nodded.
"Didn't I hire private tutors? Didn't I put you in the best private school money can buy? Then why didn't you do better?"
Emily's voice joined mine, weak and trembling. "Y-yes, Mark… You should've done better."
I slammed the paper down. "Why can't you just be perfect—like me? Do you think the world forgives mistakes? I built everything we have by refusing to be weak."
I reached across the table. "Give me your phone."
Mark hesitated, then slowly reached into his pocket. But I snatched it from his hand.
"You won't see this again until I see perfect grades. Now go to your room."
Emily stood but didn't meet my eyes. "L-Listen to your father, Mark."
He got up in silence and left. The door closed behind him.
I sat there, staring at nothing, the paper still crumpled in my hand. The dining room was silent, but inside my head, something buzzed. A whisper I ignored: What if you're wrong?