***
Monday morning arrives. I walk past the protestors again, but this time with newfound vigor. With an 8 a.m. board meeting scheduled, I’m planning to start this week off with some changes. And I know Julian won’t be happy.
The board saunter in, men taking their own sweet time.
Clara and I are already in our places at the top of the table.
“Can we make this quick?” I say sharply.
All eyes turn to me, then the men quickly scurry to their seats. I don’t give their backsides a chance to warm the chairs.
“My visit to the proposed terminal illness retreat on Friday was positive.”
“You attended the site?” Julian says, eyes wide, nose pinched. “I wasn’t aware”
“You didn’t need to be.”
He sits slightly straighter, chest puffed out as if wanting to argue. I ignore him. This is my business. And my choice.
“We’re moving forward. Draft the agreement.”
Julian claps his hands together. “Excellent. This will be perfect for Opengate.”
“No,” I say, locking eyes with him. “This isn’t about Opengate. It’s about the families.”
“Antonia, I think—”
“You don’t need to think. You just need to draft the agreement.”
Clara chuckles beside me. She’s enjoying the show, her hand doodling hearts on her notebook instead of the details.
“Opengate isn’t at the center of this project,” I say. “We’re supporting it. No exploitation. Just funding.”
Julian pushes his chair back, and it rolls over the tiles as he stands. Chin locked, he looks furious. “Antonia, if we can’t utilize the angle, it’s hardly worth doing.”
The room goes deathly still. All I can hear is Clara’s pen sweeping over paper.
“I think you may be in the wrong job.” His eyes narrow. “If you believe supporting dying people is a marketing strategy, you’re working for the wrong company.”
“Antonia—”
“No excuses. Just draft the agreement.”
I walk to the window, looking down on the signs below, signaling to the men in the room that this conversation is over. Footsteps echo, then the door clicks closed.
I breathe out, finally alone.
“Would it have helped?” Clara whispers as she appears at my shoulder.
“What?”
She snorts under her breath. “The retreat. Would it have helped your family?”
We stare at each other, woman to woman, never having discussed what happened in my past. She knows, but never pries. I respect that.
“We would have been able to forget for a while,” I murmur. “Perhaps not everything would’ve been lost the way it was.”
She nods. But leaves the air empty for me to speak.
“Perhaps not every memory would’ve smelled of disinfectant.”