Marcus estimated the direct operational savings from the previous year alone at roughly $280,000.
The renewal cost was just over $106,000 annually.
Dad had been receiving roughly a quarter-million dollars in annual operational benefit from software he dismissed as my “little company.”
At nearly one-third the normal market price.
By then, the argument was no longer emotional.
It was arithmetic.
Marcus recommended renewing.
Dad refused.
For four days.
Then his attorney reviewed the contract.
There was no automatic right to the old rate.
No promised extension.
No obligation to subsidize.
No punitive increase.
The existing agreement ended on the date both companies had signed three years earlier.
Simple.
Dad finally approved a twelve-month renewal at the standard commercial rate.
He called afterward.
“I gave you your first break.”
His voice was flat.
“You did.”
“This is how you repay me?”
“I appreciated that account.”
“Apparently not.”
I looked at the framed photo on my desk.
It showed our original five-person DockLine team eating pizza on moving boxes.
We had barely been able to afford the office then.
Dad’s contract mattered enormously.
That was true.
So was everything that came afterward.
“Dad, appreciation is not a lifetime price lock.”
“You’re doing this because I insulted you.”
“The only reason your price stayed that low this long was because you were family.”
He stopped speaking.
I continued.
“You cannot call my work useless on Saturday and expect me to subsidize that work on Monday.”
Then I ended the call.
Not angrily.
There was nothing else to say.
After renewal, I removed myself completely from the Whitaker account.
One of our senior customer-success managers took over.
No weekend calls to me.
No side favors.
No informal feature requests.
No Dad calling because somebody at the warehouse forgot a password.
They became a customer.
Nothing more.
And strangely, the relationship improved.
Not immediately.
At first, Dad barely spoke to me.
At family gatherings, he remained polite.
Distant.
I accepted that.
Tessa called one evening a month after the renewal.
“I sent you the video.”
“I already had it.”
“I know.”
She paused.
“I deleted my copy after.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like the person I sound like.”
I did not rescue her from that feeling.
Sometimes guilt is useful when it is honest and temporary.
“I’m sorry, Maya.”
“Thank you.”
“I thought Dad was joking.”
“You kept recording.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“Can I ask something?”
“Sure.”
“How big is DockLine actually?”
I smiled.
There it was.
But her tone was different from Dad’s.
Not asking whether I was impressive.
Trying to understand the life she had ignored.
“We’re fine.”
“How fine?”
“Twenty-one employees now.”
“Customers?”
“Forty-seven.”
“Revenue?”
“No.”
She laughed quietly.
“Fair.”
For the first time in years, we talked for nearly an hour.
Not about Dad.
Not about business comparisons.
About work.
Her marketing projects.
My hiring problems.
Mom.
A ridiculous television show we both secretly watched.
Normal sister things.
I had missed them more than I knew.