Page 11 of Pretend for Me

Since Mom’s diagnosis a few months ago, she’s begged us to all act as normal as possible. And though Deena’s sugarconsumption should be the least of her concerns, I wouldn’t put it past Mom to lecture her about it.

“Well, since I didn’t even get a hug or a ‘you’re the best brother in the world,’ I’m sort of tempted to tell her . . .”

Deena wraps her thin arms around me, looking up with a grin, her eyes the same shade of brown as mine. “You’re the best brother in the world.”

“Now I just feel like you’re saying it because I asked you to say it.”

“Ugh, Dev!” she whines.

Grinning, I ruffle her unruly hair. “Fine. You’re safe for now.”

She releases me, eyeing my head. “What’s with the cap? You never wear caps, but now I can see why. Your head looks like it’s two sizes too big for your body.”

I shoot her a mock glare, reaching for her drink. “Gimme that back.”

“No!” Deena giggles, darting away from my reach and rushing up the staircase. “See ya later, Mr. Potato Head. Thanks for the boba!”

My chuckle fades as I fix my gaze on the backdoor.

Taking deliberate steps, I exit through the door to find Mom sitting on a chair, draped with a woven blanket, watching one of her hummingbird feeders in the distance. A tiny bird revs its wings, sipping nectar as it hovers in the air.

Mom’s hair has started to grow back after the rounds of chemo, but it’s still sparse, her eyes more sunken with each passing day.

But before I can make my way to her, the door behind me creaks open and Dad slips out, a tray in hand with two cups of steaming tea. He’s taken little help from the staff during the day, insisting on being the one to take care of Mom as much as possible.

“Dad.” I offer a tight smile to the man who bears a strikingresemblance to me, despite our contrasting skin tones and eye color. His deep tan and onyx-colored eyes to my sun-kissed complexion and brown eyes. Neither Deena nor I inherited our mother’s pale blue eyes or blonde hair.

Dad’s eyes flick to the top of my head. “I see you’re really set on shaking up the culture of the company I built. In just a short time as CEO, you’ve not only managed to reverse our profits, but decided it’s no longer a priority to dress appropriately. You asked the senior leadership team to wear hats at our quarterly shareholders’ meeting.”

Yup, he definitely tuned in.

I hold back a bitter chuckle. How foolish of me to have expected a decent greeting for once. Perhaps a,“Hey, son, how are you?That was a tough meeting, but you seemed prepared.”No, that would be asking too much.

Slipping my hands into my pockets, I square my shoulders. “We handed out hats with our company logo to everyone to lighten the mood.”

Dad gives me a reproachful smirk. “And what did that accomplish? Empathy for our lackluster results? Did share prices soar because of it?”

My jaw clenches, a headache thrumming in my temples. I have half a mind to tell him that share prices would have plummeted if shareholders saw the CEO resembling Vanilla Ice under this hat, but I leave that bit to myself.

And speaking of headaches, my mind drifts to the woman who triggered mine this morning.

She’s also the reason I hastily threw on a hat right before the meeting, given I had little time for another haircut. And since I didn’t want to be the only one wearing a hat, I asked the entire leadership team to do so as well.

“You know as well as I do that you left when the economy was booming. You were part of the decision to expand into new markets and increase R&D spending. Now those costsare reflected on the earnings reports, hence the results you saw.”

I stifle a smirk at my use of ‘hence’ again, imagining Deena’s scowl if she were here.

Dad is about to respond when Mom’s soft voice floats over to our ears. “What are you two whispering about over there? Come over here so I can see my son.”

Dad and I exchange a silent nod, tabling this conversation for later.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Mom’s frail hand reaches for mine as I approach. “Is your dad giving you a hard time about work again?”

She scowls at Dad as he places the tray of tea in front of her. She must have managed to get out of bed today, unlike last week, when she was confined to it.

For all my dad’s flaws, namely his towering expectations of his children and his company, he’s always been a devoted husband. If I’m honest, he’s been a good father to me and Deena too, in his own way. But where Mom has always been our haven of understanding and solace, Dad’s been the disciplinarian, pushing us to strive for more, to never settle.

But I’ve realized that achieving Deepak Menon’s expectations is about as attainable as winning a staring contest with a statue. Whether I’m the youngest CEO to manage a business of this magnitude or not, expecting Dad’s praise or even a pat on the back is useless.

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