Page 2 of Sugar Pie
No one else there was like I was. My adopted brothers never once questioned anything, and I needed to stop believing I was a fraud. I lifted my chin. “You once said I was worth your time and love, and I worked for years to be the best son to you that I can be.”
Maman stared at me as if she saw right through me. “You are. I love you. Your father loves you.”
Except I’d never been asked to prove that. “And I love you both. I’m more grateful than you know, but I need to prove to myself that I can start a business from scratch and make it succeed without being your son.”
Jeff, the lawyer of the family, asked, “What are you going to do?”
The idea had played in my mind since I graduated with my MBA in finance. If I’d not been picked by Maman and Pedar, there was zero way I could have earned Ivy League degrees. I didn’t even know how anyone lived without cash.
And I wanted to. It quickly turned from an idea into a plan. I blinked, and everything I’d ever intended became my mission. I stared across the table. “I was born in Greenville, North Carolina. So I want to start there.”
Pedar shrugged and motioned for our dinner to be served. “Don’t take too long.”
Fair. The people at the table were my family. They were all I had. I swallowed. “I won’t be more than a year.”
My mother didn’t even blink. “And you call me.”
As a teenager, I needed that undying devotion she had to me and all of us. However, the idea of just seeing where I was born and figuring out how people without unlimited resources lived seemed more important to me than enjoying a birthday cake. I nodded. “I will.”
* * *
Two days later, my plan went into motion. The year before, I’d started the paperwork to get my general contracting license, as I’d played with the idea for a long time. With everything settled in my mind, I booked a small apartment in Greenville, had it furnished, and decided to start my life with only five grand in start-up funds.
If I could transform $5000 into a million-dollar company then I would hold my head up and accept that my mother had been right about me.
A knock sounded on my door as I checked that my backpack had everything I’d requested.
Maman let herself in and wrapped her arms around me. Her hug silenced me.
When she let me go, she folded my shirts and put them in my bag. “Don’t disappear from me for too long, and take some breakfast and snacks for your trip.”
I laughed and finished packing beside her. “I’ll stay in touch. I gave myself a one-year break from my job, so it won’t be forever.”
“I hope so.”
I zipped my one bag, which was all I would take.
“I love you, Warren.”
“I love you too, Maman.” I hugged her tightly.
Without the Norouzi family, I would have grown up on my own with social workers checking in on me once a week. When I was almost four, my birth parents died months apart from overdoses, though I was always thankful that my birth mother had tried to stay clean when she was pregnant with me, or so the paperwork read. I hardly remembered either of them.
Maman walked me to the front door and opened it to reveal a driveway still lined with my brothers’ various sports cars.
However, instead of a helicopter, limo, airplane, or sports car, I hopped in an old truck the servants had on hand and headed to the apartment I’d rented online.
Once I cleared the small beach town that housed the private estate of the Norouzi clan near the beach, I followed signs for the highway and reviewed my plan. Six hundred dollars a month for rent seemed cheap. I’d worn more costly shoes than that to my Wall Street job. As I started my new adventure, I wore sneakers. I had work boots on order. I wanted to fit in to my new environment. Jeans and T-shirts were all I needed.
The drive to North Carolina took all day, but I had my general contractor license, my place, and my truck. Soon enough, I would launch my business empire without using the family resources at my disposal.
At the end of the long drive, I checked in with the landlord, grabbed the keys, and headed to my apartment.
As I opened the door, I blinked at the sight of the square apartment that seemed too small for my broad shoulders. The tiny linoleum-floored kitchen sat to my right, near the front door. In front of me was a small dining area with a table for two. The living area was equally small, and inside the one door was the bedroom with an en suite bathroom.
My bathroom in Manhattan had been bigger than the entire place. The apartment was clearly designed for a small person, which I was not.
I made toast with the flatbread my mother had insisted I pack. Next, I needed a shower and a good night’s sleep.
