Mothers and fathers miss moments in their children’s life.
They're so busy surviving, they don’t live.
The purpose of the retreat is to gift back a little time. Time for families to come together without the stresses of everyday life. Where the medications are taken care of, the facilities are inclusive, and they can just be together. It’s about when the treatment pathway comes to an end, and all that’s left is time to salvage.
It's an idea I can get on board with. One I can believe in. I’ve spoken to enough clients suffering from cancer to know that time is the greatest gift they can receive. It’s what Opengate does.
***
My apartment is quiet when I get home. It always is. It’s rare to even see a neighbor. No one has knocked on my door to introduce themselves in the last twenty years. Most of them probably don’t even live here anymore.
I’m not invited to the community parties.
They don’t ask for my help at events.
I pay my annual dues, any ongoing maintenance, and they leave me alone. I like it that way. When I come home, I want to close my door to the world and just be me.
As I step inside, I kick off my red heels. They land next to the black ones from yesterday, which I haven’t put away yet. I’m careful not to wear the same outfit two days in a row. It’s important to be in control enough that you manage a wardrobe, especially as a woman. People notice your attire; they notice if you haven’t straightened your hair. I don’t give anyone an inchof doubt about who I am and who’s in charge of my destiny. It’s me.
Opening my refrigerator, I find the plastic tubs stacked perfectly. Each meal is labeled with warming instructions and nutritional values. They were delivered today. Not caring, I pick up the first one, rip off the lid and place it in the microwave. It pings five minutes later.
I don’t bother with a plate, just a fork, and eat the pesto pasta standing at my counter. After, it’s thrown in the trash and forgotten about until my cleaner arrives tomorrow.
Never being here, the apartment sits pristine most of the time. I don’t hoard knick-knacks; there isn’t a photo in sight. There’s nothing here that could be broken. It’s slick, easy, and a place to crash. My solace is found at the office. This is where I sleep.
After changing into my flannel pajamas, I grab my laptop and a glass of wine, then retreat to the sofa. Reopening my email, I find Julian’s proposal at the top of my inbox?his PR strategy for moving forward with Ben’s retreat.
It reads as I suspected it would, all bells and whistles. Invasive to the family at the center of this personal space. He doesn’t just want a tagline to promote. Something to mention when an enemy rears their head and says we’re bad. He wants a spectacle. A show.
Ben asked for only what he needed to open the doors. All we need is a good story to improve our reputation. I won’t suck blood from someone just because the opportunity is there. Just because they need our money.
I consider the email again. Then change direction and lift my phone. Ben answers immediately.
“Good evening, Dr. Jones speaking.”
He sounds the same as he did in my office: controlled, professional, and at ease with who he is. I wonder if he’s twisting his ring.
“Good evening, Ben, it’s Antonia Cole. I’d like to see this site.”
There’s a hiss like water spilling over the edge of a pot, then a clatter of metal. He clears his throat. “Good,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think you were done with it.”
Our conversation is cordial. Short. To the point.
Once done, I reply to Julian.
No press involvement at this stage.
Draft an alternative structure.
And I hit send. I don’t wait for a reply. I close my laptop.
This isn’t about optics. It’s about who controls my company. And that’s me.