The house I grew up in was by most standards a mansion. When I was young, if I planned things well, it was big enough for me to stay out of my dad's way and line of sight for an entire weekend. Something I did often. He was always far too preoccupied with business, even on Sundays, to pay me any attention. My schoolmates would brag about a weekend trip to a ski lodge or a cruise on a lake, but for me, the weekend was a roaring success if I managed to keep clear of my dad. Occasionally, I could get from Friday night to Monday morning with no more than a glimpse of Dad's plaster cast face. He rarely showed any emotion in his expression and when he did it was usually a scowl to show that he was yet again disappointed in me.

I rode up the long stretch of cement to the circular driveway in front of the pale, ivory house. The hedges had been neatly trimmed into straight lines. While every other house on the private road had lush, colorful landscaping that could rival the finest botanical gardens in the world, Archer Manor or Hell House as I had secretly called it, had only the smallest amount of greenery and not one splash of color. If some rogue flower seed had blown over from a neighboring house and had dared to bloom in our yard, my dad would have walked right out and stepped on it. Dad thought trees and flowers were a messy nuisance. The neighbors, of course, avoided talking and even making eye contact with my dad. He preferred it that way.

I parked my motorcycle at the top of the driveway and climbed off. I glanced up just as the corner of a curtain lifted in the window above the balcony. Dad's bedroom. I was sure he was working up a scowl and grunt of dissatisfaction about the noise my motorcycle caused in the neighborhood.

The front door opened as I pulled out my key. Mr. Pruitt was Dad's sixth full-time nurse. The others had all walked off the job within two weeks of starting, but Pruitt, who'd spent a good chunk of his adult life in the marines, had powered through four months. And he was still around. He was even wearing a smile as I walked up, and it wasn't easy to produce a smile after spending any extended amount of time with my dad. Even in his very weak state, Dad was nothing short of miserable.

"You're still here," I mentioned as I placed my helmet on the entryway table. "I guess marines really are made of stronger stuff."

Pruitt had one of those deep laughs that rolled out and drummed the walls. "I have to admit, your dad is about as challenging as boot camp. He had a rough day yesterday, but today he's sitting in his room doing paperwork. I think he heard you ride up."

"I'm sure of it. Thanks, I'll head up right now."

I climbed the double wide staircase and stopped at the three paintings at the top of the stairs. They were three austere, tight-lipped portraits painted centuries ago. They were the type of creepy paintings that looked as if the eyes were following you as you turned at the landing. My dad had not bought them for decorative or cultural purposes but for investment reasons. He never would have bought something as frivolous as art unless it was going to grow greatly in value.

I walked along the polished wood hallway to his bedroom door. It was slightly ajar. I stood there for a second before entering.

"Don't linger in the hallway, Nash. Come inside."

It seemed even in failing health, he had preternatural senses. I walked into the room. His once masculine and cold bedroom had been transformed into a well-appointed hospital room with beeping monitors and an IV stand. His mahogany dresser, an antique he'd purchased on a trip to Germany, was covered with bottles and tubes of medicine. When I was a kid, he rarely let me into his room, but it had always smelled of his pen ink and furniture polish. He was always a clean freak. The housekeepers, who lasted about as long as the nurses, had to wipe down his entire room every morning and once in the evening before bed. Now that smell of extreme clean had been replaced by the scent of rubbing alcohol and medicinal creams.

Dad was sitting at his work table in front of the window. The heavy curtains were closed and the ceiling lights made his sallow skin look dry and thin like tissue. His once broad shoulders had shrunk down to look like the arms of a coat hanger. He was nearly swimming in his robe.

He was just shy of sixty, but the cancer had withered him into a much older man. He didn't look up from his account ledger as he pointed at the chair across from him with a long shaky finger.

I walked over and sat down. I was no longer a kid, yet I sat there fidgeting with the zipper on my jacket, quietly waiting for him to finish his task. My eyes drifted across the table to an old shoe box that was completely out of place amongst the leather-bound ledgers spread out over the table.

I reached for it.

"Those are just some ridiculous old pictures. Pruitt found the box when he was bringing the ledgers up to my room. I told him I didn't want them." He adjusted his glasses, but he still had to lean closer to the books to see them.

I opened the shoe box. "I can't imagine you ever saving pictures in a shoe box. I can't imagine you saving pictures period. I don't even know what I looked like as a kid."

"That's bullshit. I have every one of your school photos." He barely lifted his milky gaze to look at me before focusing back on his work.

I pulled out the first picture. It was old and faded. The date October '61 was printed on the edge. A little kid, about three, was wearing just a ripped pair of shorts and holding a tambourine. Dirt smudged his face and arms, but what really stood out was his smile. Behind him was a woman with long wavy hair and a shirt with long flowing sleeves. A leather headband was tied around her forehead, and she was smiling right along with the toddler. My dad had rarely spoken about his parents, the grandparents I never knew, and when he did it was wholly unflattering. He claimed they were two homeless vagabonds who played off of each other's flaws and who should never have been given the responsibility of raising a kid. His mother had died in what Dad called 'miserable and embarrassing circumstances'. Apparently, she had grown fond of heroin and eventually it killed her. After her death, his dad, my only grandfather, decided to move to South America for no particular reason except he thought it would be different. My dad was sixteen at the time, and he decided to stay here in the states on his own. He lost all ties to his dad along the way to his billion dollar bank account.

I looked across the table at Dad. "They were hippies."

"I told you they were homeless vagabonds. Sometimes we lived in that mildew rotted van of theirs for months."

"But they were part of a cultural movement. Peace, love and . . ."

"Drugs and avoiding 'the man' as they liked to call anyone with a job or a real life."

I looked at the picture and felt a pang of jealousy over the kid in the photo. "You look happy."

He made a scoffing sound and wrote down some numbers on his paper.

"Right, I forgot. Happiness is just a silly abstract word that means nothing." I rubbed my thumb over the woman in the picture. "My grandmother looks pretty. I think I have her eyes."

My comment made him stop writing. He didn't look up right away, but as he lifted his face, my breath stuck in my throat for a second. It was really happening. The rich and powerful David Nash Archer was being erased from this earth forever by a chain of rogue cancer cells. His face was drawn from the rigorous chemo treatments and the constant pain. It seemed his weakened physical state had left him just a tiny bit vulnerable to an unexpected show of emotion. "Her eyes were green like yours. They never stopped sparkling."

I stared at the man as if he had just grown horns. He could have told me aliens came to eat dinner with him last night, and I would have been less stunned. I had never heard him say anything good about his parents, and I'd certainly never heard him say anything that sounded remotely as if he had an actual human heart beating in his chest.

He quickly obliterated the odd moment. "Put those pictures away. We have something important to discuss." He placed his pen down and sat back, his face contorting in pain as he tried to get comfortable in the chair.

I placed the photos back in the box. "Can I get you something?" I asked, as he held his breath to let a wave of pain pass.

"No," he said tersely. His skin whitened more, and he kept his eyes shut for a few seconds. He opened them and stared at me across the table. "Morris Grant called to see how I was doing."

"I see." Growing up I never made direct eye contact with him, especially when he was mad, which from the stretched thin mouth and flicker of rage in his eyes, he was that and more. Now that I was an adult, and an adult who had proved himself by raking in a fortune of my own, I had no problem locking my angry gaze with his. "I'm starting my own company."

"Not sure if your unsavory reputation is going to help you with that. I knew you had a weak link inside you." He motioned with a shaky hand toward the shoe box. "Unfortunately, I couldn't stop the transfer of genes from my parents to you. You've got some of that wild streak in you. I was able to stop and control it when you lived under my roof but now—"

"Now I'm an adult and every fucking decision I make is my own. I don't need a fatherly lecture or an ounce of your anger or disappointment or whatever other negative feelings you can summon for your only son."

Dad rested his head against the tall back of the chair. It seemed even sitting up for extended periods took too much energy. "When I wrote the amendment into my will, insisting you had to make ten million dollars on your own before getting a penny of your inheritance, I did it, not out of cruelty, but to make sure you didn't take life for granted. Too many wealthy heirs lead meaningless, spoiled lives, spending all the family fortune without ever realizing the blood and sweat that went into earning it."

I sat forward. "First of all, I was never a spoiled, wealthy heir. I wasn't born with the silver spoon in my mouth. You held it in front of my mouth, but I never got to taste it."

"Right. I saw to that. And that life of austerity made you strive for success. But now it seems you've started taking it all for granted. Fast, expensive cars, loose women and booze. Those are all the hallmarks of a spoiled, wealthy brat."

"There is not one dollar of your money in my bank account, so I think we can change that title to successful, young man finally learning what it's like to live a good life. And what I do with that life is none of your business." I got up to leave. "It's been a rousing chat as always, sir."

"The lawyer is coming by later today," he said before I could leave the table.

I stopped.

"I'm changing the will again. You reached and far surpassed your first ten million, and that would have released the trust to you upon my death. But I'm adding a new stipulation. You don't need Grant, that old prune. It's about time you started your own company. And when your company is earning seven figures in a year, you'll get your trust."

I shrugged. "Keep moving the goal post as often as you like. It's still my life, and I'll do what the fuck I want with it." I headed out. "Maybe we can just bury you with your fucking fortune because I don't want it."

I walked out, not wanting or needing to wait for his response. In truth, our quick chat had gone about the same as our meetings always had since I'd grown up and ventured out on my own. Dad was still trying to control me, and the sense that his grip on me had come all but unglued made him lash out in every way possible. And for him, that always meant money, namely my inheritance. But he had been using his fortune as leverage to get what he wanted from me for a long time. I was bored of playing that game. The trust fund was starting to feel like a pact with the devil, and it just wasn't worth the hassle.

I reached the staircase but rather than head down, I crossed the landing, walking past the creepy paintings to the east wing of the house. My bedroom was at the end of a long hallway, far away from Dad's room. I was always glad to have a long stretch of space between our bedrooms.

It had been several years since I walked into the room. I opened the door. It smelled stale and musty, like a room that hadn't been opened for years. Which I was sure it hadn't. There were at least half a dozen rooms in the sprawling mansion that were never used.

Almost nothing had been added to the room since my first winter break when Dad had given all my things to charity as punishment for blowing my first semester midterms. I never had the urge or need to buy personal stuff again because I knew it could be taken away at any time. And once I'd had a taste of being away at college, I knew without hesitation that I would move out of his house and out of his life the second I graduated.

The empty bed with the old faded quilt I'd pulled from one of the guest rooms sat lonely and cold in the center of the room. I'd spent so much time in the room, trying to avoid any interactions with my dad, that I knew every crack in the plaster wall and every worn spot on the carpet.

I walked over to the wall next to the closet and rubbed my fingers along the shoddy patch work I'd done when I had to fix the hole I made with my fist. I glanced down at my hand and the two slim, white scars on the back of my knuckles. I could still remember that night as if it had just happened. It was that night when it really dawned on me just how fucking nuts my dad was.