Unsteady

3 | Dysfunctional Families and Curious Acquaintances

MY family is dysfunctional at best.

I'm sure you're likely thinking saying something like that is hardly an original statement. There are plenty of dysfunctional families—the Kardashians, the Jacksons. Even the Lannisters from Game of Thrones in all their fornicating, debt-paying, backstabbing glory are about as dysfunctional as my family gets, and that's saying something.

Let me explain.

My family has connections. We know people—that comes with the patriarch being a politician.

My father and I have never really gotten along. There's always something to argue about. There's always a verbal battle to be fought. We haven't seen eye to eye on anything in a long time. I don't think I can remember the last time we agreed on something.

My mom is the kindest woman I know, however, but she's also the quietest. She's like a mouse: never raises her voice, never speaks out of line, is always, always on her husband's side.

Despite my frosty relationship with my parents, I got everything I wanted when I was little. It's always been handy having wealthy parents growing up.

But that always came with a price.

The same with the press knowing our name. It made growing up restrictive. My every movement was monitored. Every decision was made for me. Everywhere I went required permission.

Things changed when my sister got sick. I still remember the day Frankie came home with her bloody sweatshirt pressed to her nose, the rush to the ER, the moment time seemed to stop when we were told my baby sister had cancer.

It wasn't an easy time.

It didn't get any easier when my father decided to admit my sister to St. Andrews in secret, which also meant I couldn't see her unless the suits came with me and I slip in through the back.

"I don't want the press camping outside the hospital trying to interview my dying kid," my father had growled. He'd pointed a finger at me. "You don't see her unless you get permission. I will not have those vultures following you there because you don't understand discretion."

I'd scowled at him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence and lack of trust. I appreciate it."

"Don't give me that lip, Nicholas. If you go to that hospital without a security detail, you won't see Francesca at all."

He'd turned his back on me to walk back to his desk in the study. "Besides, I need you working on the campaign with your mother."

I've never been able to do what I'm told when a threat is attached. It's just not in my bones. It's like OCD, but the bad kind. I don't take kindly to being threatened. It makes the rebel in me do what it wants. And it wanted to bail on Dad's rally to go see my sister.

So that's what I did. And I'd walked right through the front door.

I'd rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and asked the nurse at the front desk where my sister was. She'd pointed down the corridor. She didn't tell me a room number or anything. Just, "that way".