As my father always proudly states,
“You have to keep busy to keep young.”
I don’t know if that’s a true statement. But I know
the cool fact—my mother is twenty one years younger than my father.
That’s YOUNG.
Well, the fact was, my mother won the competition when she
was “the cute secretary”. She bumped out the then Mrs. Bill Morgan and
moved into the big house.
That’s why my mother knows how fierce the competition
is. She knows a ton of girls are trying to become the next Mrs. Bill
Morgan. She has to be on the guard 24/7 to secure her position.
Her bottom line is that her husband can do whatever he
wants as long as he doesn’t come home one day and say the magic word—divorce.
And again, of course, she sacrifices so much, simply for me .
I came to this world as a big mistake, I guess. My
father was always a “roamer”. He didn’t want to have any kids. He
wanted “freedom” and hated commitment. So, when my mother told him that
she had me in her belly “by accident”, my father surely gave her a sour
face.
Does he still hate me? Most of the time, yes.
Oh, well, he may not hate me but he does want me to disappear from his
world—when he is stressed out as much as my mother. Unfortunately, he is
always stressed out.
Sometimes, however, he does show interest in
fatherhood. That’s when we get into this nice father-daughter chat for
hours.
“Emilie,” he would start with this brief “open speech”,
looking at me as if I were a little alien from Mars.
“Father, I have to pee,” I have to get ready.
“Sure, go pee,” his eyebrows lock tightly.
Sometimes, I really worry that they may become stuck together forever.
I go pee, get a big cup of hot chocolate or whatever I
like at the moment, put on my bunny slippers, and make myself comfortable on my
Hello Kitty bean bag sofa. “I’m ready, Father.”
“Great!” his deep bass echoes throughout the room.
He sits down in his rocking chair and clears his throat. “Okay, how’s
everything?”
I’m smart enough to understand what that means. It
means my marks, nothing else. How good is good enough? My
father has a “dynamic measurement”. That’s how he runs his
business. I have to be better than the Emilie three months ago.
That means I’m competing with myself all the time. I can never win.
As my dear father puts it, I have to be ready for the competition because one
day, I will have to take over the business since I’m the only child.
Our conversation isn’t always that stressful. After
the serious part, I can always enjoy a long story without answering a single
question. “When your great, great, grandfather came to Boston,…”
“The life was rough,” I smile.
“Exactly,” my father smiles, too.
Our conversation goes from 1770s, to the Great Depression,
the WWII, the Internet bubble burst, and all the way to the stock and gold
fluctuation at this very moment. My dear father wants his daughter know
how the family made all their money and more importantly, how to make more money when his daughter takes over the business one day.
“Do we really need more money?” This is the question
I always have during our conversation. But I’m smart enough not to ask.
Never. Unless I want to turn that interest in
fatherhood to total cannibalism.
Being a kid in a rich family is odd. First of all,
you seldom see your parents. Secondly, when you are lucky enough to see
them, you seldom see them smile.
The kids themselves are odd, too. If you see a
little kid who doesn’t smile, jump, run around, scream, and mess up things, he
or she is from a rich family. They are not kids. They are little
tools of their parents. Seriously.
For example, my parents only allow me to play with the
“good” kids—the ones who belong to the associates and big
“You have to keep busy to keep young.”
I don’t know if that’s a true statement. But I know
the cool fact—my mother is twenty one years younger than my father.
That’s YOUNG.
Well, the fact was, my mother won the competition when she
was “the cute secretary”. She bumped out the then Mrs. Bill Morgan and
moved into the big house.
That’s why my mother knows how fierce the competition
is. She knows a ton of girls are trying to become the next Mrs. Bill
Morgan. She has to be on the guard 24/7 to secure her position.
Her bottom line is that her husband can do whatever he
wants as long as he doesn’t come home one day and say the magic word—divorce.
And again, of course, she sacrifices so much, simply for me .
I came to this world as a big mistake, I guess. My
father was always a “roamer”. He didn’t want to have any kids. He
wanted “freedom” and hated commitment. So, when my mother told him that
she had me in her belly “by accident”, my father surely gave her a sour
face.
Does he still hate me? Most of the time, yes.
Oh, well, he may not hate me but he does want me to disappear from his
world—when he is stressed out as much as my mother. Unfortunately, he is
always stressed out.
Sometimes, however, he does show interest in
fatherhood. That’s when we get into this nice father-daughter chat for
hours.
“Emilie,” he would start with this brief “open speech”,
looking at me as if I were a little alien from Mars.
“Father, I have to pee,” I have to get ready.
“Sure, go pee,” his eyebrows lock tightly.
Sometimes, I really worry that they may become stuck together forever.
I go pee, get a big cup of hot chocolate or whatever I
like at the moment, put on my bunny slippers, and make myself comfortable on my
Hello Kitty bean bag sofa. “I’m ready, Father.”
“Great!” his deep bass echoes throughout the room.
He sits down in his rocking chair and clears his throat. “Okay, how’s
everything?”
I’m smart enough to understand what that means. It
means my marks, nothing else. How good is good enough? My
father has a “dynamic measurement”. That’s how he runs his
business. I have to be better than the Emilie three months ago.
That means I’m competing with myself all the time. I can never win.
As my dear father puts it, I have to be ready for the competition because one
day, I will have to take over the business since I’m the only child.
Our conversation isn’t always that stressful. After
the serious part, I can always enjoy a long story without answering a single
question. “When your great, great, grandfather came to Boston,…”
“The life was rough,” I smile.
“Exactly,” my father smiles, too.
Our conversation goes from 1770s, to the Great Depression,
the WWII, the Internet bubble burst, and all the way to the stock and gold
fluctuation at this very moment. My dear father wants his daughter know
how the family made all their money and more importantly, how to make more money when his daughter takes over the business one day.
“Do we really need more money?” This is the question
I always have during our conversation. But I’m smart enough not to ask.
Never. Unless I want to turn that interest in
fatherhood to total cannibalism.
Being a kid in a rich family is odd. First of all,
you seldom see your parents. Secondly, when you are lucky enough to see
them, you seldom see them smile.
The kids themselves are odd, too. If you see a
little kid who doesn’t smile, jump, run around, scream, and mess up things, he
or she is from a rich family. They are not kids. They are little
tools of their parents. Seriously.
For example, my parents only allow me to play with the
“good” kids—the ones who belong to the associates and big
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