Even though my marriage was a disaster, one thing I’m glad to have done was adjust my schedule so I had some kind of work-life balance.

After the divorce, it would’ve been easy for me to fall back into old patterns and start overworking myself again. But I knew it wouldn't have been the healthiest thing for me to do, so I resisted the pull to stay at my desk past office hours.

Work can be an all-consuming distraction if I let it.

I can tune out the world when I’m analyzing financial statements and market movements, until all I see are the facts and figures, and non-logical things are forgotten.

There’s always more work to do. It never ends when you’re the one running the business. You can always take on more projects, hire more people, and expand the operations.

Unlike other addictions, workaholism is socially rewarded. People who work to the point of obsession tend to be good at what they do. And the more they do it, the more they get: money, women, gemstones, yachts, fast cars, and the list goes on indefinitely.

If you’re good enough at what you do, you can buy whatever you want.

But I’ve already bought all the toys I’ve ever wanted. The only thing I don’t have is a family of my own.

Once, I thought I was finally going to have it all. A wife and a few kids would’ve made my life complete.

Instead, Melanie had to shit all over my dreams.

I still can’t believe I missed all the signs that she was just a common gold digger. Looking back, she didn't exactly hide the fact that she wasn't wife material.

All those birthdays when she demanded diamond jewelry. All those dinners when she went for the most expensive items on the menu, every single time. All those times she took the private jet for shopping trips all over the world, leaving me stranded without any means to travel for my work—which, by the way, was the very thing funding her expensive lifestyle.

But she didn’t care. What Melanie wanted, Melanie got. Even if I had to skip important meetings and miss out on multi-million deals because of her.

When we finally got divorced, even with the big settlement she received, she still tried to drain our bank accounts and max out our joint credit cards, knowing I’d be on the hook for them too. Luckily, I had a great team of lawyers watching my back.

It sounds obvious now that she was just using me, but at the time I couldn’t see it.

There were times when she wasn’t completely self-centered, and I stupidly kept her in my life for those rare moments. And then, she left me as soon as our marriage made it to three years, which was when she’d get the big pay-out, according to our pre-nup.

Yeah, I know, it was fucked up. I was a dumbass.

But I’m more angry at myself than I am at Melanie. I was unbelievably stupid. I actually thought she loved me. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Want to know what the truth is?

It took me a while to accept that I’m always going to be a target. With my wealth and my business profits publicized in the papers all the time, it’s almost like someone’s painted a target on my back.

It’s not like I can complain, though. All that publicity is good for business—necessary for business, even.

So despite my annoyance at how nosy people can be, I grin and bear it. It’s just a shitty part of my otherwise great job. Everybody has at least one of those, right?

But as much as I like my job, I’ve already made the decision to work less and live more. I know that's the healthy thing to do, wife or no wife.

It's not always easy to stick to it, though, especially right after the divorce.

Even going to the gym meant that I was staring at a blank wall while I was running on the treadmill or lifting weights. Sometimes I had a screen to stare at, which was only a small consolation. It would invariably show shit like fashion shows, or celebrity gossip, or some stupid movie that I’d already seen in the cinema with Melanie.

I tried to pick up reading, but the books I picked were invariably related to my job, and the whole point was to spend less time working. Besides, the authors of those books probably weren’t making as much money as I was, so why should I care about what they were saying?

No. I needed some human interaction in order to distract myself.

So I started spending more time with my parents. And I continue to do that until now, two years after the divorce.

I press the doorbell and stand on the porch while I wait for Mom to open the door.

“I got you some wine.” I hold up the three bottles by their slender necks.

Mom takes one of the bottles off my hands, obviously worried I’d drop them on the smooth, wooden planks of the porch floor.

“I’ve never seen this brand before.” Mom rotates the bottle in her hands. She pulls down her reading glasses from their perch on top of her head, causing a few strands of her hair to fall over her forehead. Her mouth moves as she examines the writing. “It’s all in French.”

“I bought it in France. Of course it’s in French.” I push the door open wider and slip inside.

Mom closes the door behind her and follows me inside. “Another business trip?”

“No.” I spot Dad sprawled out on the recliner in front of the TV. “Hey, Dad. You’re taking the doctor’s advice to rest up seriously, I see.” I take a seat on one of the couches and place the wine bottles on the coffee table.

“Oh, don’t even get me started,” Mom says as she enters the spacious living room. “He tried to trim the grass yesterday. I had to threaten him, saying I’d sell the lawn mower if he’d as much as touch it. I don't think there's anyone else in the world who gets that excited thinking about getting to fix stuff around the house again after recovering from a serious illness.”

Dad grins at me. “You know what it’s like. Staying still is making me antsy. I feel like a sick person.”

“You are a sick person,” Mom admonishes him.

“Yeah, but I don’t have to feel sick, do I?” Dad counters.

“Try it and see how sick you feel after five minutes outside. You heard what the doctor said. You need a lot of rest.”

“Don’t look at me,” I say when Dad glances at me for support. “I’m not going to go against the doctors and Mom, too. I love you, Dad, but as Meatloaf would say… I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”

“Look at what Heath got us,” Mom says as she offers Dad the bottle.

Like Mom did, Dad puts on his reading glasses and checks out the label. Except he recognizes the name of the vineyard.

“I didn’t know they imported their stuff,” he says with a frown, his eyes fixated on the label as if he can’t quite believe he’s holding what he’s holding. “I’ve been looking for this wine everywhere.”

“I know. Mom told me you were planning to visit the winery.” I stop myself from saying “after you retire,” because Dad hasn’t been working for a few days, and I know he’s bummed out about that. He doesn’t say it, but he’s probably worried he won’t ever get well enough to to go back to work.

We all know Dad’s probably dying. Sure, there’s the drug trial, but it’s unlikely to work.

Like a fourth person in the room, Death sits close by as we chat. He’s listening, waiting for the right time to strike. Strangely, it makes our gathering feel less private, knowing at any time we might need to invite a horde of paramedics into our living room.

Still, we don’t talk about it—the very real probability of Dad dying.

Maybe we’re afraid to tempt fate if we talk about it. Or maybe we know there’s nothing we can do about it and we’d rather try to enjoy what little time we have.

“Where did you get this wine from?” Dad says, still inspecting the bottle like he’s a detective and there’s a clue on it that he needs to solve a murder. I can almost see the hunting cap on his head and the smoking pipe hanging between his lips.

“From the South of France,” I say.

My parents can’t go there themselves because of Dad’s illness, but at least they can enjoy the wine.

“Another business trip?” he asks.

“Yeah, Dad. I had business in that sleepy rural town. The biggest grocery store in town was considering an IPO,” I answer sarcastically with a big grin.

“Smart-ass,” Dad says, chuckling. He coughs, and Mom rubs his back with a look of concern on her face. when he settles down, he says, “Thanks for the wine, but you didn’t have to do that.”

A few years ago, Dad would’ve started lecturing me on the value of money whenever I spent in a way that he saw as “reckless.” These days, he’s mellowed out. I wonder if he simply knows I won’t listen anyway, or if he’s just getting old.

“Ready for lunch?” I ask.

It takes a while to get everyone seated in the car, even with the wheelchair I got for Dad. But soon we arrive at their favorite neighborhood restaurant, an Italian joint we’ve been frequenting for as long as I can remember. As usual, Mom orders the spaghetti carbonara, while Dad asks for the pepperoni pizza. I’m getting the best fucking chicken linguini in the whole world; I swear not even Rome has better pasta.

The food is good, the wine is even better than my parents expected, and by all accounts, it's as pleasant as a lunch can be, when one of us is dying.

And then the paparazzi appear.

As we walk out of the restaurant, a swarm of reporters crowd us, shoving microphones in our faces.

“Mom, take Dad to the car,” I say as I let go of the push handles. I lift my hand up to get the reporters’ attention and let them gather around me. “My dad is sick, so I’d appreciate it if you guys could leave my parents out of it. I don’t have much time because they’re waiting for me, but I can answer a couple of questions before I go. Quick ones.”

“Have you heard about the price of the Petro stock shooting up?” asks one reporter.

Shit. That’s bad news. I have a big short in that stock, and I’d lose a fortune if the price keeps going up.

But that can wait until I get back to the office. There’s not much I can do from here anyway.

“We are aware, of course, and we’re already coming up with strategies to face that.” It’s not a complete lie. I’m sure the people at the office have got it covered. I only hire the cream of the crop. That’s why my business is so successful.

“Heath, we’ve noticed a woman walking into a downtown hotel with you. Who is she?” a female reporter asks. Judging by her question, she’s probably from a gossip tabloid.

They always seem to have a photographer or two following me around, and even more when something happens with my investments because they know I’m going to appear in a lot of mainstream media and they want to capture some of that interest, too.

A tabloid is not the kind of publication I usually pay attention to. Under normal circumstances, I’d ignore this woman. I don’t care what people think about me as a person. All that matters is they see me as a competent, successful investor whom they can trust with their wealth.

But this is different.

I was supposed to keep things with Kat under wraps. My plan was to tell my parents about the baby after Kat leaves, without giving them much information beyond the fact that the baby's mine.

I don’t want them trying to find Kat and coaxing her to have a relationship with the kid. No, I know better than to get entangled with a woman now, especially when it comes to sharing something with one—like money, a private jet, or a baby.

So I don’t want anything to be traced back to Kat at all. Letting her forge a relationship with the kid means creating a vulnerable spot that she can use as a weapon.

She seems nice now, but who knows what time will do to her? In ten years, or twenty-five years, she could become desperate or plain greedy. And then what’s going to stop her from blackmailing me?

Nothing. That’s what.

So Kat absolutely has to disappear when the baby doesn’t need her anymore. When that happens, I won't have any need for her either. And ideally, neither the baby or I will ever hear from her again.

The pang of reluctance in my chest surprises me. But I’m not straying from my original plan. I know what happens when I put my hopes in a woman, and I’m not going to repeat that mistake again.

“She’s just someone who works for me,” I answer the reporter. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my parents are waiting for me. Thank you.”