Chapter 6 - DAD CAME TO SAN FRANCISCO
Dad arrived six months later.
No warning.
Reception called again.
“Your father is downstairs.”
“Does he have cookies?”
“No.”
“Unfortunately also my father.”
I considered refusing.
Then said yes.
He entered wearing the same navy blazer he wore to every important conversation.
He looked uncomfortable in a startup office filled with whiteboards and people wearing sneakers.
Good.
“What do you want?”
“To see where you work.”
I blinked.
That was not what I expected.
He looked through the glass wall.
Engineers.
Analysts.
Legal researchers.
Product teams.
Lexora’s logo appeared on one section of the floor.
Not mine anymore, technically.
But still something I built.
Dad said:
“You made all this?”
“No.”
He frowned.
“I started something. A lot of people made the rest.”
That answer bothered him.
He liked singular heroes.
Clear ownership.
Then he asked:
“Can you show me?”
I almost said no.
Instead, I gave him a demo.
Case-search visualization.
Brief comparison.
Judge analytics.
He watched quietly.
Then asked smart questions.
Very smart.
Dad had practiced commercial law before moving into consulting years earlier.
He understood immediately why lawyers would pay.
After twenty minutes, he said:
“This is good.”
I stared at him.
He looked embarrassed.
“That sounded insulting.”
“Yes.”
“What should I say?”
I thought.
“Ask me how I built it.”
So he did.
And for the first time in my life, I told my father the entire story.
Priya.
Owen.
The first failed prototype.
The first paying customer.
The months we nearly ran out of cash.
The acquisition.
He listened.
Really listened.
Then said:
“I had no idea.”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I looked at him.
“I did.”
His face fell.
Right.
He remembered.
The hobby.
The distraction.
The little apps.
Dad sat down.
“I was wrong.”
Simple.
I waited.
He continued.
“I thought I knew what success looked like.”
“Yes.”
“I thought law gave you a structure.”
“I didn’t want your structure.”
“I know now.”
Then:
“I was afraid you’d waste your life.”
I almost smiled.
“That was never your decision to make.”
“No.”
He looked through the glass again.
“I’m trying to learn that.”
Not:
I learned.
Trying.
More believable.
Before leaving, he asked:
“Can I take you to dinner?”
I looked at him.
“No.”
He nodded.
“Another time?”
“Maybe.”
He accepted it.
May you like
That mattered more than the apology.
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