The Weight of Expectations

The Thanksgiving dinner at the company wasn't what I had expected. There were no homemade nougats or tables filled with family dishes. Instead, the main hall of the building was decorated with dim lights, immaculate white tablecloths, and a cocktail bar that looked like it had been pulled straight out of a design magazine. It felt more like a formal party than a family celebration, and from the moment I walked in with my father, I felt out of place.

Victor Steele walked beside me with his usual straight posture, greeting guests with a firm handshake and a calculated smile. I followed in his footsteps like a shadow, trying to maintain a neutral expression while exchanging greetings with businessmen whose names I barely remembered. Most of them looked at me with feigned curiosity, as if they were evaluating whether I was truly worth being part of the Steele dynasty.

"Sack, right?" one of them said—a tall man in an expensive suit with a watch that probably cost more than my college tuition. "Victor always talks about you. He says you're at Stanford. Excellent choice."

I nodded briefly, unsure of what to say.

"Thank you. I'm really enjoying my studies."

The man smiled, but there was something in his tone that made me uncomfortable.

"I hope you follow in your father's footsteps. This country needs more leaders like him."

I didn't respond. I simply nodded again and moved on, looking for another conversation less loaded with expectations. But every person I spoke to seemed to have something to say about my future. "You should consider economics," one said. "Or maybe finance," suggested another. No one mentioned medicine because everyone knew that decision had already been made. And though no one said it outright, I could feel their disappointment in the air.

Everything changed when Émile Dupont arrived, a distant uncle who lived in Europe and ran one of the largest pharmaceutical companies on the continent. He was an elegant man, with a soft French accent and a way of speaking that seemed designed to impress. My father greeted him enthusiastically, introducing him as "an example to follow" for me.

"Sack, this is Émile. He's one of the most successful entrepreneurs I know," my father said, with evident pride in his voice. "Maybe you can learn something from him."

Émile extended his hand with a polite smile.

"Pleasure to meet you, young Sack. I've heard a lot about you."

"The same goes for me," I replied courteously, though I had no idea who he was until that moment.

We stepped away from my father and began a superficial conversation. At first, everything seemed normal. We talked about the weather, how my experience at Stanford was going, and trivial things that didn't require much mental effort. But then, Émile abruptly changed the subject.

"So… medicine, huh?" he said, leaning slightly toward me as if we were sharing a secret. "An interesting choice. Not what everyone expected from you, but well, everyone has their reasons."

I frowned slightly, surprised by his bluntness.

"It's something I've always wanted to do. Helping people, understanding how the human body works… it fascinates me."

Émile nodded, but his smile became tighter.

"Of course, of course. Admirable, no doubt. But tell me, don't you feel like you could have a greater impact on the world if you followed in your father's footsteps? Imagine leading a company like this. You could change lives on a large scale, not just one at a time."

His words irritated me, but I tried to stay calm.

"I believe there are different ways to make a difference. Medicine is my passion."

Émile paused, as if carefully measuring his next words. Then, in a lower, almost paternal tone, he said something that froze my blood.

"I understand your perspective, but… look at your mother. She studied medicine too, didn't she? And look where she is now."

The world around me stopped for a second. I felt heat rising up my neck, a mix of anger and helplessness that I could barely contain. I knew he hadn't said it with malice, but that didn't matter. His words hit me like a punch to the chest.

"My mother was an incredible woman," I responded, my voice colder than I intended. "Her career doesn't define her legacy. And if you think her death invalidates everything she did, then you have no idea who she was."

Émile seemed surprised by my response. He opened his mouth to say something else, but I had already turned around and was walking toward the exit. I couldn't stay a second longer in that place.

I left the building feeling like the cool night air was the only thing that could calm me down. My hands trembled slightly as I shoved them into the pockets of my coat. I didn't want to think about what had just happened, but Émile's words echoed in my mind like an unbearable refrain.

"Look at your mother. Look where she is now."

I knew I shouldn't have let it affect me so much. I knew Émile didn't understand what it meant to me to talk about my mother. But still, it hurt. It hurt because, in a way, he was right. My mother had dedicated her life to helping others, and in the end, it hadn't stopped her from leaving too soon.

I walked aimlessly for a while, letting my feet take me to unfamiliar places. Eventually, I ended up in a small plaza near an old bookstore. I sat on one of the benches, staring at the city lights blinking in the distance. I needed a distraction, someone to talk to who would understand how I felt.

I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message.

"Lindsay, do you have a free moment right now? I'm downtown. It's not urgent, but I'd like to talk to you if you can."

I stared at the screen, waiting for a reply. It didn't take more than a few minutes before my phone buzzed.

"Of course, I'm home with my family, but I can step out for a bit. Where exactly are you?"

I quickly replied, telling her about the small plaza near the old bookstore. Then, I simply leaned back on the bench, watching the city lights and trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions inside me.

I didn't know how much time had passed when I heard her footsteps approaching. I looked up, and there she was. Lindsay wore a long beige coat that reached her knees, with a white sweater underneath and dark jeans that fit her figure perfectly. Her blonde hair, under the faint glow of the streetlights, shimmered with a brightness that seemed to make the white of her outfit stand out even more. It was as if she radiated her own light, a warm and calming presence even before she said a word.

She stopped in front of me, looking at me with concern.

"Hi," she said softly, as if afraid to break the silence of the night. "Are you okay?"

I wanted to respond. I wanted to tell her everything that had happened, from the superficial conversations with my father's business partners to Émile's cutting words. But the words got stuck in my throat, as if something heavy were blocking them. I simply nodded weakly, unable to articulate a coherent response.

Lindsay didn't say anything else. Instead, she slowly approached and sat down next to me on the bench. For a moment, we both remained silent, gazing toward the horizon where the city lights blinked like distant stars.

Then, without warning, she rested her head on my shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but it carried so much meaning. I felt her warmth against my arm, and something inside me began to relax.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the soft murmur of the wind. "I just wanted to be here with you."

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting her presence calm the chaos in my mind. There was no need to say anything; Lindsay had always had this ability to understand me without words.

After a few minutes, I finally managed to speak, though my voice sounded hoarse and low.

"Today… today was hard. I spoke with someone at dinner, an uncle of mine who lives in Europe. He… he mentioned my mother. He said something he shouldn't have."

Lindsay lifted her head slightly to look at me, but she didn't say anything. Her eyes searched mine, offering me a safe space to continue.

"He said that… that my mother studied medicine and look where she is now. As if her death invalidated everything she did." My voice trembled as I spoke those last words, and I had to pause to regain control. "I don't know why it affected me so much. I know he didn't mean it maliciously, but…"

I left the sentence unfinished, unable to fully express how I felt. Lindsay took my hand in hers, gently intertwining our fingers.

"Sack," she said, her tone full of tenderness, "no one can invalidate who your mother was. What she did, how she lived, how she loved you… that's what defines her legacy, not how it ended. No one has the right to judge her, or you either."

Her words were simple, but they struck something deep within me. It was as if I had been carrying an invisible weight for years, and Lindsay had just helped me let go of it, even if only a little.

"Thank you," I murmured, feeling a lump in my throat. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

She smiled faintly, squeezing my hand gently.

"You'll never have to find out. I'm here for whatever you need, always."

We stayed like that for a while longer, silent but connected. The cold of the night seemed less intense now, as if the warmth of her presence had chased it away.