"Clark, I'm sorry, but this is beyond my control," Clark Johnson's supervisor, Mr. Turner, said, his voice dripping with fake pity.
Clark looked at him, shocked. "Out of your hands? What does that even mean? I've worked here for eight years, Turner. Eight good years of loyalty, late nights, sacrifices and commitment!"
"I know, I understand," Turner murmured, rubbing the nape of his neck. "But the board made the decision. There's nothing I can do."
Clark's hands curled into fists. "Don't lie to me, Turner. This isn't about performance, what's actually going on?"
Turner avoided his eyes, moving the papers on his desk. "It's just… Times are harsh. Restructuring, downsizing, all of that. You know how it is."
"Cut the corporate jargon," Clark snapped. "I deserve the truth. Who put my name on the chopping block?"
Turner hesitated, his lips squeezing into a narrow line. "Clark, it isn't personal."
"Not personal?" Clark growled a nasty laugh. "You are dismissing me from the company I dedicated my life to, and you have the nerve to say it's not personal?"
Turner exhaled, raised up, and nodded towards the door. "Take the severance package, Clark. It's generous. You'll land on your feet."
Clark stood still, his heart hammering. "You're a coward, Turner. And I won't forget this."
---
A few hours later, Clark arrived at the front of the Miller residence. His stomach clenched as he stared at the lovely home, its spotless white walls shimmering in the noon light. But the idea or dream of him coming to live together with his wife at his in-law resident was never in his plans.
"This is humiliating and embarrassing," he said quietly.
His phone vibrated in the passenger seat. It was Mary his wife calling. He paused before lifting it up.
"Are you planning to enter, or are you just going to sit there all day?" Mary's voice sounded harsh and irritated.
"I'm just… gathering my thoughts," Clark said.
"Well, hurry up. My father's already inquiring why you're lurking outside like a delivery man."
Clark closed his eyes, holding the steering wheel. "I'll be inside in a minute."
The call ended abruptly.
---
Clark was greeted with laughs as he entered the Miller family's lovely living room. Mary reclined on a comfy sofa, her legs elegantly crossed, while her brother, Fred, rested against the fireplace, wearing a self-satisfied smirk.
"Well, if it isn't someone who chose to join us at last," Fred replied, his tone tainted with disgust.
"Fred," Mary warned casually, though there was no real conviction in her tone.
Clark forced a smile. "Good to see you too, Fred."
"Good to see you?" Fred echoed with a chuckle. "Clark, you're practically family now. No need for pleasantries. Or should I say… you're back to being family. I've heard about your little career change.' Tough luck."
"Fred," Mary murmured again, this time with a note of displeasure.
Clark ignored him, laying his suitcase down near the stairway. "Where should I put my things?" he inquired, addressing his query to Mary.
"The guest room," she stated curtly, not meeting his eyes.
"Guest room?" Clark frowned. "What about—"
"You don't expect to share my room, do you?" Mary cut in, her tone fierce. "Let's not make this more awkward than it already is."
Clark's jaw stiffened. "Right. Guest room it is."
Fred let out a faint whistle. "There's trouble in paradise already?"
"Fred, enough," Mary screamed, rising up. "Clark, we'll talk later." She turned and walked out of the room without further word.
---
The meal was a difficult event. The large dining table, decked with crystal glasses and silver utensils, resembled a battleground rather than a setting for family interaction.
"So, Clark," Harold Miller, Mary's dad, continued, his tone as frigid as his steel-gray glare. "What emotions arise from being unemployed?"
"Dad," Mary interrupted, her tone lacking passion.
"It's a fair question," Harold said, disregarding her. It must be a significant change to transition from a provider to...
Clark's hold on his fork tightened. "I'm not unemployed, sir. I'm between opportunities and plans."
"Is that what they call it these days?" Fred added in, grinning.
Clark threw him a frown but said nothing.
"And what are these 'opportunities' you're considering?" Harold pressed. "Surely you have a plan, a timeline, something to show you're not completely adrift."
"I'm working on it," Clark responded calmly.
"Working on it," Harold repeated, his tone filled with scorn. "Sounds vague. Mary deserves stability, Clark. Not vague promises."
"I'm well aware of what Mary deserves," Clark continued, his voice steely.
Fred chuckled. "Relax, Clark. Dad's just watching out for Mary. You haven't really provided him with many reasons to feel confident, have you?"
"Fred, if you have something to say, then just say it," Clark yelled back, his patience wearing thin.
Fred slouched in his seat, a fulfilled smirk on his face.
"Alright. I'll say it. You're out of your depth here, Clark. Always have been. This family operates on success, on results. You? You're just… a placeholder."
"Fred!" Mary growled, gazing at her brother.
"No, let him talk," Clark responded, his voice low but firm. "Go on, Fred. What else do you think about me?"
Fred shrugged. "You really want to know? Fine. I think you're a charity case. Someone Mary married out of pity, not love. And now that the novelty's worn off, you're just… baggage."
The room fell silent.
Clark rose suddenly, his chair skidding across the floor. "Thanks for being honest, Fred." "I'll ensure that I keep it in mind."
"Clark, hold on," Mary started, but he was already turning to leave.
---
Later that night, Clark sat alone in the guest room, staring at the ceiling. Fred's comments repeated in his memory, each one a knife to his dignity.
But it wasn't just Harold and Fred. But It was Mary's coldness, apathy, and the weight of failure pushing down on him from all sides.
He sadly reflected that they believed he was insignificant.
He tightened his fists, his jaw straining. "I'll demonstrate to them," he muttered. "I'll proof everyone of them wrong." "This is not the conclusion for me."
As the evening drew on, Clark quietly vowed to himself to recover his honor, to surpass their scorn, and to demonstrate that he held greater value than their censure.
Yet in the recesses of his consciousness, a small voice murmured, At what price?