The microphone felt heavy in Elias’s hand, a perfect analogy for the weight of the last two decades. He stared at his father, beaming, oblivious on the dais. The room, overflowing with sycophants and well-wishers, buzzed around them. He took a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of cheap champagne and unspoken resentments. He cleared his throat. “Dad,” he began, his voice surprisingly steady, “I have so many memories of you. Like the time I scraped my knee and you told me to walk it off.” A small, tight smile played on his lips.
He paused, letting the silence hang. He watched his father’s smile falter, the slight furrow in his brow. “But I also remember the countless soccer games you missed, the school plays you couldn't attend because, as you always said, you had ‘important work’ to do.” He focused on a small stain on his father’s otherwise perfect tie, a splash of something red. He wondered if anyone else noticed.
He continued, his tone smooth, almost conversational. "It was always about the work, wasn't it? The climb. The promotions. The accolades. Perhaps, Dad, if you had invested just a little bit more time in your son, you might have known him better." He glanced out at the applauding crowd, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He raised his glass. "To a long and fulfilling retirement. May it be as empty as your time with me."