The trill of my phone jarred me away from the stacks of tests I was grading in the teacher’s lounge. I saw my mother’s name on the Caller ID. She never called me in the middle of the day.
“Ma?”
All I could hear was my mother’s sobbing.
“Ma, are you all right?”
“We’ll be all right, with time.”
“What does that mean?” My heart thumped in my chest. “Ma, what the hell is going on?”
“Your father…” Her voice rattled, and I could imagine her lips shaking as she spoke. “He had a heart attack. Collapsed right in the middle of a cross-examination.”
I dropped my pen, grabbed my purse and booked it out of the lounge. “How is he?”
My mother exhaled slowly. “He’s stable. The doctors have him on oxygen and are monitoring his heartbeat.”
I raced down the hall toward the principal’s office. “Where are you? I’m coming now.”
“St. Jude’s. On Weston Avenue.” She broke into tears again. “Cardiac wing. Third floor.”
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my emotions in check as I pushed open the office door to tell the secretary I was leaving. “I’m coming, Ma. Just hold on for a couple hours. I’m coming.”
My father and I never really got a chance to talk in the hospital. I’d held his hand while he lay in bed, but between the drugs and the attention from the doctors and nurses, there wasn’t much chance to interact. That first day, I was there more for my mother, giving her a shoulder to cry on, relieving her at my father’s bedside so she could go home to sleep. The next day, two of my aunts came to be with her, and I decided to go back to work, knowing there was little I could do.
Four days after the heart attack, on Friday afternoon, my father came home. I drove out to spend the weekend playing nurse. I found Pa in the den watching college basketball and stopped in my tracks when I saw a stack of papers on the coffee table next to his pills and cup of tea. Legal briefs. Dozens of them.
“Pa, what are you doing?”
“Watching the game. Taking it easy.” He looked weak and old. When did that happen? “Good to see you, Amber.” He put his hand on the arm of the couch and tried to push himself up to hug me.
“No, don’t get up, please.” I sat down on the couch and hugged him there.
“I’m not so bad off, honey.” He gave a brush of his hand, as though swatting an annoying fly. “The doctors say it was mild. Like a warning shot across the bow.”
“I see you’re taking the warning quite seriously.” I picked up a couple of briefs, then let them drop hard on the table. “Taking it easy, eh?”
“Well, this could hardly come at a worse time.” He rubbed my back the way he always did when I was stressing over a test. “We’re right in the middle of a big case.”
“You’re always in the middle of a big case.”
“The judge gave us a postponement due to the circumstances, but I’ve got clients depending on me.”
I held my father’s hand and tried to catch his eye. “You’ve also got a wife and kids depending on you. You think any of us will be served if you work yourself to death?”
“Oh, let’s not be so dramatic.” Dad’s posture stiffened. “The doctors have prescribed a regimen. I’m following their instructions. See, I’m watching the game, and there’s not a nacho in sight.”
“That’s what they think got you? The nachos?”
“Nothing’s got me yet. Just a bit of a setback. I’m not as young as I used to be. I need to take better care of myself, and I will. But the heart attack didn’t kill me, so don’t ask me to start living the life of a dead man. I’ve got responsibilities, and I intend to fulfill them.”
“You’re not going right back to court?”
“No, I’ll need surgery in a few weeks. Until then, I’m to stay off my feet as much as I can. But I can still run point from here, and I’ll brief my associates on how to handle the case without me present. Now, are you going to watch the game with me or not?”
I snuggled next to my father and kept silent, but I couldn’t focus on the game.
Three weeks later, I sat in a hard, plastic chair in the waiting room while my father went in for surgery. Only my mother was allowed to accompany him. I wanted to be there when he got out and didn’t mind waiting alone. Unfortunately, I wasn’t alone. Aunt Sophia came to lend support.
Even at the hospital waiting room, she wore mascara as thick as lacquer. “I do hope your father can get himself back on his feet and return to work soon,” she said.
“I don’t.” My knee was bouncing. I tried to stop it, but it was too skittish. “He puts too much pressure on himself at the firm. He should take it easy and get his health in order. I was kinda hoping he wouldn’t go back at all. He’s 60. That’s not too early to retire.”
Aunt Sofia gave an exasperated sigh, probably the same sound she made each time her son Jimmy got fired from another job. “Retirement at 60 is a luxury, Amber.”
My eyes narrowed. “He’s worked 35 years as an attorney, almost 30 of those as a partner in his firm. How could he not afford to retire?”
“You kids are so naive.” My aunt shook her head. “Your father’s been raising children for 35 years. He’s put four of you through college. He’s already paid for two weddings, and he’s no doubt hoping to pay for yours as well. Look how he’s raised you. You all had a nice home, exotic vacations, cars when you turned 16. Where do you think that money came from?”
Numbers flashed in my mind. Four college tuitions, two weddings, four cars, vacations, braces, tutors, swimming lessons, private school for my older sister when she was having learning issues. Raising the four of us could not have been cheap. But still, my father made a good living. I didn’t know exactly how much, but he never raised a word of complaint about money. “I’m sure he put something away for retirement each year.”
“Of course he did. But look how long people are living these days. If he gets his health back, he could easily live another 30 years. Even if he doesn’t, your mother could. You think he’s saved away enough to provide for all that by age 60? You must be dreaming.”
“Are you just guessing?” My head tilted. “Or do you know this?”
“A bit of each. Your parents have more saved away than we do, but not by a lot. For our retirement, Joe figures he’ll have to work another fifteen years. And that’s assuming Jimmy ever moves out and learns to provide for himself.”
Fifteen years? Uncle Joe was almost sixty himself, and the only time I ever saw him exercise was when he got off the couch to get himself another beer. Could he really work well into his seventies? Even if he could, there was no way I wanted my father to do so. “How long do you think it’ll be until Pa can retire?”
“If your folks hope to maintain their current lifestyle, I expect he’ll need another decade at least.”
Could my father live another decade at the rate he was pushing himself? He’d always been Mr. Dependable, the one who planned ahead, who had everything laid out and in order. How could he have set aside so little for his own future?
The following Tuesday, my father returned home with strict orders to rest until he was ready for physical therapy. No amount of begging on my part could convince him to lay off his legal briefs. I helped my mother prepare a slew of meals she could store in the freezer and got back to my classroom. If the kids were left too long with a substitute, they’d turn into wild animals, and I was too exhausted to play queen of the jungle.
Fortunately, we had a distraction that Wednesday. Sam, an engineer working in artificial intelligence, came in to make a presentation before the class. Anthony had arranged the whole thing, of course. Anthony’s firm had made a sizable investment in Sam’s company, and when Anthony called, they were more than happy to send out a techie for a few hours. Sam brought in a robot that helps blind people navigate spaces. My students got to see the robot in action, ask it questions, and put stumbling blocks in its way.
Mikey was the most enthusiastic kid in the room. “Seego, how cold is it outside?” he asked.
The robot “thought” for a moment and responded, “It’s 47 degrees with a chance of rain. You should wear a coat and have an umbrella ready if you plan on going out.”
“And what’s the safest way for me to get from here to the door?” Mikey asked.
Seego’s voice was slightly stunted and metallic. “You are four yards, two feet, and 3 inches from the door, but there are obstacles in the way.” It then gave him detailed instructions as he made his way around desks and between backpacks until he reached the door.
“So, what do you think?” Sam asked.
“AI is awesome,” Mikey said. “I want to make something like Seego one day.”
I gave Mikey a proud teacher grin. “It must be exciting to make something that can help the world.”
“Well, yeah. I guess there’s that too.”
“That too?” I bent to his level and rested my hands on my knees. “What else were you thinking, Mikey?”
“It’ll make me rich!”
While the kids surrounded Sam and asked him all sorts of questions, my mind drifted to my father. He was the first Romano to graduate college, much less become a lawyer. My grandparents were so proud of him. I bet they thought he was going to make it big. That he was going to be rich.
An image of my father lying in his bed, his skin sunken and pale, flashed before me. The briefs looked like a ball and chain around his ankles. I always thought we were well to do, but now it seemed my father was trapped in debtor’s prison.
And it was killing him.
Dad was all I could think about as Anthony and I walked into Mako, a new Asian fusion restaurant in the arts district. When we sat down, the host handed us menus folded into perfect origami cranes.
“Anthony, can I ask you something personal?”
He stopped unfolding his menu and looked up. “Sure, babe, what’s up?”
I took a deep breath. “Well, I know you make a good living.”
He laughed. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“But…” My throat suddenly felt dry, and I had to take a sip of water before I could continue. “How much are you setting aside for retirement?”
“Retirement?” His eyes narrowed, but only a bit. “Amber, I’m only 32, and I love my job. Why are you thinking about retirement?”
“Just curious. I assume you’ve put some away, right?”
Our drinks arrived, and Anthony sipped his scotch. “Well, I make my 401(k) contribution.”
I knew this was the most unromantic way to spend our first time together since I left town to help my parents, but these questions burned for answers. “What about savings? How much runway do you have?”
“Runway?”
“If tomorrow you decided to quit, how long could you keep up your lifestyle before you ran out of savings?”
Anthony’s eyes scanned the ceiling as he made some mental calculations. “A few months, I guess.” He rested his huge hand on mine and squeezed softly. “But don’t worry, I’m not quitting.”
“I know you’re not.”
“What’s bothering you, honey?” His other hand joined in, as though he were trying to overshadow my jitters with his calm. “Does this have something to do with your dad?”
I nodded and swallowed hard to hold back tears. “I’m worried about him. I’m starting to realize he doesn’t have as much money saved away as I thought.”
“I see. And you’re worried the same thing could happen to us?”
“Well…,” I shrugged. “Couldn’t it?”
“Amber, I make significantly more money than your father.”
“I know.” I forced myself to hold his eyes. “But you also spend more. As you said, you only have a few months of savings.”
“I’ve also got a hell of a lot more work years ahead of me.” He handed me my glass, nudging me to drink some and relax.
I sipped my sake, and it burned its way down my throat. “And more expenses ahead as well. My father’s already put his kids through college and paid for two weddings.”
“I assure you, you don’t have to worry. All you asked about were retirement and savings, but I have plenty of other investments.”
“You do?” I brightened at this.
“Sure. I have equity in my fund, which means I own a small share of each deal we do.”
“Yeah?” My shoulders relaxed, and I could breathe fully for the first time that night. “That’s the basis for your Cash Machine?”
“My Cash Machine?”
“Your source of passive income.”
“I mean, I share in whatever payouts the fund makes, but it’s not what you’d call a passive income.”
“Why not?”
“No one gets involved in venture capital to eke out a small return. The objective is growth. Virtually none of the companies we invest in are profitable. The last thing we want to do is erode their cash by forcing them to pay out dividends.”
“So then when do you make your money?”
“When we exit. Some of our companies go public, others are acquired. Either way, we can wind up with a huge cash payout. Most of the money will be paid out when the fund closes after 7 to 10 years.” He finished unfolding his menu. “I’m starving. Why don’t we order something to eat, then you can grill me some more.”
I opened up my origami crane, but the words on the menu were a blur. Dylan and Anthony had such different perspectives on investment. To Dylan, growth was a secondary objective; income was his priority. Anthony put growth first. They were both smart guys. Why the difference?
Anthony called the waiter over, and I forced myself to focus on the menu. My appetite had gone down since my father’s heart attack, so I quickly ordered a salad and returned to the debate in my head.
I watched Anthony as he ordered his tuna maki, and it hit me. The answer was simple: Dylan and Anthony’s investment priorities were different because their goals were different. Anthony wanted a life of riches, and no matter how much he earned, he fully expected to be working for the next three or four decades, accruing more wealth. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself otherwise. Dylan’s goal was financial independence, the freedom to not work. His model was all based on creating predictable income because as soon as his passive income reached his cost of living, he could do whatever he wanted with his life. But for Anthony, there would never be enough. In his field, those who had ten million wanted a hundred million. Those who had a hundred million wanted a billion.
When the waitress left, I jumped right back into my questions. “So because you’re investing for growth, that’s why you bet on long shots?”
“Exactly. It’s high-risk, high-reward investing. My firm had one investment a couple of years ago that paid over one hundred times our investment.”
“But it has a lot more investments that go bankrupt, right?”
“Well, sure, but that’s how the game works. When you hit, you hit big. Though when you spread all this risk through so many investments, it balances out into a fairly steady return.”
“And how long will that return last?”
“Theoretically, it can last forever, as long as we keep opening new funds and picking winning companies.” He shook his glass and downed the rest of his sake.
In other words, it could dry up overnight if they failed to pick winners. And even if they continued to pick well, weren’t there factors outside of their control? I’d been doing some research since my father’s heart attack, mostly while I couldn’t sleep at night. I knew that when the dot com bubble burst in 2000, it wasn’t just one or two companies that went under, the entire sector dropped. The same thing with real estate in 2008. “Aren’t there companies you could invest in that make good, predictable returns?”
“That’s not venture capital. Companies like that are low-risk and low-reward.” He looked at me like I’d suggested he trade in his Porsche for a Chevrolet minivan. “My fund would never get involved in something like that.”
“What about outside the fund?” I busied myself trying to refold my menu. “Is that anything you’d ever consider getting involved in yourself? Buying into businesses that offer a steady income each year?”
“With what money?”
I shrugged. “Why not the same money you use to invest in your fund?”
“I don’t put any money into the fund. I get a share as a principal in the firm.”
Oh. “And if you ever leave the firm?”
“Well, some of my equity has already vested, so I’d keep it if I left tomorrow. But most of it requires me to stick around. Again, you don’t have to worry about me going anywhere. I love my firm, and I assure you the feeling is mutual.”
I wasn’t about to be pushed off that easily. “What about investing the money you do get?”
“You mean my salary? That goes into paying for my apartment, car, theater tickets, and our dinner tonight. Speaking of which…”
Our waitress arrived, loaded with dishes.
We dug in silently, but my mind kept racing. The romaine lettuce in my salad got me thinking about Rome, which got me thinking about Italy, which brought me back, of course, to my family. To my father. Anthony’s work hours were even more than his. If Anthony didn’t have a retirement plan past his measly annual 401(k) allocations, he was headed for trouble.
“What would happen…” I pushed bits of salad around on my dish, “if you were to live on half as much for a while and put the rest into building passive income sources?”
“Half as much?” Anthony’s fork fell onto his dish with a loud clunk. “I work awfully hard to afford the lifestyle I have. You want me to work just as hard and skimp on the lifestyle?”
I offered him a smile and sweetened my tone. “Think theoretically for the moment. What would happen if you invested half your income into passive income sources?”
“Like what?” Anthony’s hands balled up.
“I don’t know. Maybe real estate?”
“What would happen is that our standard of living would crash.”
Anthony had said, ‘our standard of living.’ Commitment didn’t scare this guy. Just the opposite. Everything he ever said about his firm reinforced how committed he was to staying and building his career there. And while he’d never yet told me he loved me, and he certainly hadn’t voiced anything close to a proposal, I knew he was committed to me as well. So I echoed his language. But despite his obvious discomfort, I didn’t back off. “But our long term financial stability—.”
Anthony reached over and put a hand on my arm. “Look, I know what’s happened to your father has shaken you up. But you don’t need to worry so much about our future. We’ve got a solid financial foundation to build upon.”
I nodded, not wanting Anthony to think I doubted him. But the truth was, if he, like my father, ever found himself unable to work, he would be gasping for air within a few months. Perhaps by age 60, he’d be in a more stable situation, but perhaps not. Anthony had more expensive tastes than my father, and I saw no indication that those tastes would lessen as we aged. He didn’t just want the best for himself, he also wanted it for me, and I was sure he’d want it for our kids. For all my wanting to be with a guy who could provide a solid financial future, was I deluding myself into thinking Anthony’s fat salary and flashy life meant he was capable of that? Maybe the song was right. Maybe all that glittered wasn’t gold.
