I was fifteen minutes in, right in the middle of explaining the medication reminder flow, when my office door banged open. I jumped, fumbling to hit mute, but my father’s voice was already booming through my speakers.
“Telling you, Skylar’s got the best setup in the whole house, look at this view.”
A group of people filed into my office behind him, five or six of them, all around my parents’ age, holding cocktail glasses—day drinking, of course.
“Dad,” I hissed, camera still on, clients staring. “I’m in the middle of a—”
“Oh, don’t mind us,” Mom’s voice, bright and cheerful. “We’re just giving the Millers and the Johnsons a tour. Arthur, show them the deck.”
“Excuse me for one moment,” I said to the screen, trying to maintain composure. I stood up and walked quickly to the door. “I specifically asked you not to interrupt. This is a critical work meeting.”
“Work meeting?” Dad scoffed, loud enough for the microphone to catch. “You’re sitting in your pajamas talking to a computer screen. That’s not a real meeting.”
“I am wearing business casual, and this is my job.”
“A real job has an office,” he continued, playing to his audience now. I could see the Millers and Johnsons exchanging glances. “A real job has a boss who can see when you’re slacking off. This remote work nonsense is just an excuse to—”
“Please leave,” I said, fighting to keep my voice level. “We can discuss this after 3 p.m.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw my mistake. I had contradicted him in front of his friends, challenged his authority in front of an audience. His face went dark.
“You dare?” His voice dropped to something dangerous. “You dare tell me what to do in my own home?”
“It’s not your—”
Oh.
His hand shot out and shoved my shoulder, hard. I stumbled backward, off balance, and my hip slammed into the desk edge with a burst of pain that made me gasp. My desk chair rolled away and I half fell, catching myself on the desk, my hand smacking down right next to my keyboard.
The Zoom window was still open, camera still on, all eight clients watching. For a second, nobody moved. The silence was absolute.
Then one of the executives—I think it was the CEO—said, “Miss Bennett? Are you… is everything alright there?”
I looked up at the screen, saw my own face in the little preview window, flushed and shocked. Saw my father in the background, still standing in the doorway, his friends frozen behind him.
“I’m fine,” I managed. “I apologize for the interruption—”
The screen went black. Not just black—disconnected. All the participant windows vanished. The call ended.
“Shit,” I whispered.
“Well,” Dad said behind me, casual as anything, “looks like your important meeting is over. Come on, everyone, let me show you the master suite.”
They filed out like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t just witnessed a grown man shove his daughter during a work call. I stood there, hands shaking, hip throbbing, staring at the empty Zoom screen.
My email pinged.
Subject: Contract Termination – Healthcare Portal Redesign.
I didn’t need to read it. I knew what it said. Something about an unprofessional work environment. Something about concerns regarding project stability. Something corporate and polite that meant, We saw what we saw. And we do not want any part of it.
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