[TBBT] Ch: 2 [The Beginning of Everything] (Patreon)

[AN: Hope you like it. Kinda big chapter: 2.9k words.] [Let me know if you find any mistakes. I'll fix them by noon.] [See ya.]

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" My father's question came across the dining table with enough force that Mom slowly lowered her wineglass and looked between us.

I had expected several possible reactions when I told my parents I was considering rejecting every job offer currently sitting on my desk. Confusion had been near the top of that list. Concern was obvious. A lecture about wasting opportunities had basically been guaranteed.

Dad asking whether I'd suffered catastrophic brain damage was also somewhere on the list, although I'd hoped we'd reach that stage after dessert. I calmly cut another piece from the steak on my plate. "That's a surprisingly aggressive opening argument."

Dad stared at me as though I'd just announced my intention to join a traveling circus. "Karl, NASA wants you. MIT wants you back. Stanford called me personally because apparently their people couldn't wait another forty-eight hours for you to answer an email. You've got offers from laboratories that would happily murder each other for a chance to put your name on their staff, and you're sitting here telling us you want to become a musician?"

Mom pressed two fingers against her forehead. "Robert, yelling isn't going to make this conversation more productive."

Dad ignored her completely. His stare remained fixed on me while the muscles around his jaw tightened. "Productive? Catherine, our son just told us he's throwing away everything he's spent his entire life working toward because he suddenly wants to play guitar."

"I didn't say I was abandoning science," I replied as I set my knife beside the plate. "I said I have no intention of accepting any of the offers currently available to me."

"Because you want to become a musician."

"Among other things."

Dad pushed his chair back slightly, and I could practically watch whatever patience he'd brought to dinner disappear behind his eyes. "Among other things? What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means precisely what I said. Music is one avenue I intend to explore. I also intend to pursue independent research, establish several business interests, and eventually create my own laboratories rather than spending the next twenty years working inside facilities controlled by somebody else."

Dad stared at me for several seconds before letting out a humorless laugh. "Independent research. With whose money?"

There it was.

I picked up my glass of water and took a slow drink before answering. "Initially, my own."

"Your own?" Dad leaned forward across the table. "Karl, you don't have the kind of money you're talking about."

He wasn't entirely wrong. I had money, certainly more than most twenty-one-year-olds could dream of possessing, although funding serious aerospace research could burn through personal wealth at a speed capable of making even rich people uncomfortable.

That was one of the reasons I needed several additional income streams.

Stocks would help enormously once I started moving larger amounts around carefully, although dumping millions into companies based on future knowledge required more thought than simply opening a brokerage account and becoming suspiciously perfect at investing. Music was useful because success there could be explained by talent, timing, marketing, and luck.

Explaining impossible investment returns to federal regulators would be considerably less entertaining.

Dad continued before I could respond. "Do you have any idea how much money we've spent giving you every opportunity you asked for? Tutors, private programs, travel, equipment, research materials, competitions, specialists, university housing, connections, introductions. Every time you wanted access to something, your mother and I made it happen."

Mom finally placed her wineglass down. "Robert, that's enough."

"No, it isn't." Dad turned toward her for barely a second before looking back at me. "I spent years making sure he never had to worry about anything except becoming the best scientist he could possibly become. We rearranged our lives around his education. We called people, pulled favors, paid for programs other families couldn't even dream of accessing, and now he wants to throw all of it away."

I felt something inside me tighten.

There was a part of his argument I understood perfectly well. My parents had supported me, opened doors for me, and never once complained when my education consumed more time and resources than any normal child would've required.

I appreciated that.

What I didn't appreciate was hearing that support presented like an investment contract whose return had suddenly become uncertain.

"My university education was covered primarily through scholarships," I said calmly. "MIT and UC Davis did not require you to finance my degrees."

Dad's eyebrows rose. "That's what you took from everything I just said?"

"No. I understood everything you said perfectly."

"Then act like it."

Mom looked toward him sharply. "Robert."

I rested both hands lightly on the edge of the table before answering. "Father, I am grateful for the opportunities you and Mother provided. I have never denied that, and I have no intention of pretending those opportunities were insignificant. However, paying for your child's upbringing is not a financial transaction that grants permanent authority over the remainder of that child's life."

Dad's expression hardened immediately. "Watch yourself."

"I am choosing my words very carefully."

That only seemed to make him angrier.

I continued before he could interrupt. "You provided tutors because your son required tutors. You purchased educational materials because your son was interested in learning. You supported my development because you were my parents, and because you had both the means and responsibility to do so. I appreciate everything you gave me, but basic parental care and support cannot reasonably be presented twenty years later as a debt that obligates me to pursue whichever career you prefer."

Dad's chair scraped against the floor as he stood.

"Basic parental care?" His voice rose again. "You think what we gave you was basic?"

"No. I think caring for one's child is basic parental decency and duty. The scale of what you were able to provide was extraordinary, and I am grateful for it. Those are separate matters."

Mom closed her eyes briefly, looking as though she could already see exactly where the conversation was heading.

Dad planted both hands against the table. "You ungrateful little bastard."

I didn't answer immediately.

Oddly enough, the insult didn't hurt nearly as much as it probably should have.

Maybe because I'd already spent years noticing the invisible expectations surrounding everything I achieved. Every degree led toward another prestigious institution. Every publication led toward another government program. Every recommendation came with another person explaining where someone like me belonged.

Nobody ever seemed particularly interested in asking whether I wanted to belong there.

Dad straightened and pointed toward me. "You know what? Fine. If you want to behave like some spoiled idiot who thinks he knows everything because people have been calling him a genius since childhood, then go ahead."

"Robert, don't do this," Mom said, although there was something tired in her expression now.

He didn't listen.

"You want independence so badly?" Dad asked. "You can have it. That's it, you're out."

Mom's head snapped toward him. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"I mean he can fund this brilliant new life himself." Dad looked directly at me. "Trust distributions, family investment accounts, and Peterson money are entirely off the table to finance some quarter-life crisis just because he suddenly decided laboratories aren't exciting enough."

The room became very quiet.

I had wondered whether he'd threaten something like this.

I'd simply expected it to happen later in the argument.

Dad apparently preferred efficiency.

Mom stared at him. "You're threatening to cut him out of his inheritance because he doesn't want one of the jobs you chose?"

"I'm telling him choices have consequences."

I leaned back slightly in my chair. "That is certainly true."

Dad looked at me, apparently expecting something more dramatic.

I could understand why.

The Peterson inheritance wasn't small. Even before considering trusts and family assets, my eventual share would've made me independently wealthy without ever earning another dollar.

Walking away from it would've terrified the person I'd been in my first life.

That version of me would've looked at all that money and seen safety. Rent that would always be paid. Medical bills that would never become emergencies. Food that wouldn't need budgeting. A broken car that could simply be replaced.

For several seconds, I could almost feel that old fear crawling through my chest again.

Then I remembered why this argument had started.

Freedom.

If I surrendered the moment money was placed on the table, then twenty-one years and two lifetimes hadn't taught me anything.

I looked at my father. "If that is genuinely what you wish to do, then I accept your decision."

He blinked.

Mom stared at me. "Karl."

I turned slightly toward her. "Mom, I understand what he is saying."

Dad slowly lowered his hand. "You're willing to throw away your inheritance over this?"

"I am unwilling to surrender control of my life in exchange for it."

His face changed slightly.

The anger remained, although surprise had finally entered the equation.

I continued before either of them could respond. "I understand that I have disappointed both of you. You believed my degrees would lead somewhere specific, and I allowed you to believe that because, until recently, I believed the same thing myself."

Mom watched me carefully. "Then what changed?"

I looked down at the untouched portion of steak on my plate before lifting my eyes again.

"I finally realized that I am exhausted."

Dad frowned. "Exhausted from what? You're twenty-one."

"From living as though every year of my life is merely preparation for the next achievement."

That stopped him.

I folded my hands together. "I have spent nearly my entire childhood being evaluated according to what I might become. Tutors measured how quickly I learned. Professors measured how far ahead I was. Universities measured publications, examinations, research output, and academic potential. Government agencies now look at me and see useful expertise. Corporations look at me and see patents. Laboratories look at me and see someone they can place inside a program and extract results from."

Dad shook his head. "That's called having a career."

"Perhaps. I find the prospect increasingly suffocating."

Mom's expression softened slightly.

I kept my attention on my father because this was something I needed him to understand, whether he agreed or not.

"I don't want to spend the next decade becoming somebody's extraordinarily well-compensated laboratory asset. I don't want every idea I develop subjected first to an employment agreement explaining who owns it. I don't want to request permission before pursuing research because a committee considers another project more commercially useful. I don't want my work classified because somebody in Washington decides it has military applications, and I certainly don't want to discover at forty years old that I exchanged my entire youth for prestigious titles attached to work I never truly controlled."

Dad's mouth tightened. "So everybody who works for NASA is a slave now?"

"I said nothing of the sort. NASA employs remarkable people doing extraordinary work. Their objectives, however, are not necessarily identical to mine."

"And you think playing music fixes that?"

"Music is one tool. Investment will be another. Then there's business. I intend to build enough independent capital that my scientific work does not depend upon remaining useful to whichever institution happens to sign my paycheck."

Mom studied me for a moment. "You've thought about this longer than you're admitting."

"Yes."

Dad slowly returned to his chair, although he didn't touch his food.

I looked between both of them before continuing. "I have spent most of my life inside what everyone insists is an extraordinary opportunity. Perhaps it is. From where I am sitting, it has begun to resemble an extremely comfortable cage."

Dad scoffed quietly, although he didn't interrupt again.

"I want to leave that cage while I still have enough interest in life to discover who I am outside it. I want to make music because I enjoy making music. I want to travel somewhere without turning the trip into an academic conference. I would like to meet people who have absolutely no interest in my publication history. Perhaps I might even attempt something as radical as having friends who are not twice my age."

Mom almost smiled at that.

I noticed and continued more quietly. "And I want to pursue science because I choose the questions, select the direction, and retain responsibility for whatever I create. If achieving that requires surrendering my inheritance, then I will do so."

Dad stared at me from across the table.

I couldn't tell whether he was furious, hurt, or simply trying to understand how the son he'd spent twenty-one years raising had suddenly become someone willing to walk away from millions of dollars.

Probably all three.

After several seconds, he spoke again.

"You really think you can do this without us?"

I considered the question carefully.

"No," I said. "I think I can do it without your money. I would prefer not to discover whether I must also do it without my parents."

Mom's eyes immediately moved toward Dad.

He didn't answer.

For the first time since dinner began, neither did I.

The silence that followed wasn't comfortable, although somehow it felt better than everything we'd said before.

At least the cage door was finally open.

The silence continued for another few seconds.

Then Dad finally looked away from me and reached for his glass. He didn't drink from it. He simply held it between his fingers while staring at the table as if the answer to everything was somehow written in the wood grain.

I knew my father well enough to understand that his anger had always been easier for him to express than disappointment. Anger gave him something to fight. Disappointment forced him to admit that the person standing in front of him had become someone he couldn't control.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

"Five years."

Mom looked at him. "Robert."

He raised a hand slightly, stopping her before she could continue.

"No. Let him hear this."

His eyes returned to me.

"Five years, Karl."

I didn't respond immediately.

Dad leaned back in his chair, studying me carefully. "You believe you can build something better on your own without relying on the opportunities we've provided."

"Yes." I nodded. 

The answer came naturally.

His expression tightened slightly, although he continued.

"Then prove it."

The words hung in the room.

I remained silent as he continued.

"You want independence? Fine. You want to walk away from the path everyone expected you to follow? Fine. You want to tell me that the system you're rejecting is too limiting and that you can accomplish more alone?"

Dad placed his glass down.

"Then show us."

Mom looked between us, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

"Robert, this doesn't need to become some kind of challenge."

"It already is," he replied.

Then he looked at me again.

"Five years. Go out there, Karl. Use your own ideas, your own abilities, and your own resources. Build something groundbreaking. Something that proves this isn't just some emotional decision made because you're tired."

I listened carefully.

Because despite everything that had happened during dinner, I understood what my father was actually offering.

This wasn't simply anger.

It was a test.

He didn't believe I was incapable. If he did, he would've simply dismissed my plans as childish and waited for me to fail. The reason he was angry was because he believed I was throwing away a guaranteed future for an uncertain one.

And in his mind, the only way to prove him wrong was through results.

Dad continued. "Create something that changes the world. Something that makes people look at what you've done and understand why you refused those offers. If you can do that, if you can truly build something extraordinary without relying on the Peterson name, then I'll admit I was wrong."

Mom looked at him carefully.

"And?" I asked.

Dad didn't hesitate. "And I'll support you completely."

I raised an eyebrow slightly. "Completely?"

He nodded once. "Everything I have. My connections, my resources... All of it."

That was a significant statement.

My father's wealth wasn't just money sitting in a bank account. It was decades of relationships, industry knowledge, access, and influence. Those things were often worth more than the money itself.

However, there was one condition.

"You are asking me to succeed within a predetermined period."

"Yes."

"Five years."

"Yes."

"And during that time, I receive no financial assistance from the family."

Dad nodded. "Correct."

I looked at him for several seconds.

Then I picked up my water and took another drink.

"Very well."

Mom blinked. "Karl."

I set the glass down.

"I accept your terms."

Dad looked surprised for a brief moment. He had probably expected hesitation. Maybe even an argument.

Instead, he got agreement.

"You're certain?"

"Completely."

He studied my expression, searching for uncertainty.

There wasn't any.

The funny thing was that five years sounded like an incredibly long time to most people.

To me, it was almost generous.

I already knew where technology was heading. I knew what industries would explode, which companies would dominate, and which ideas would reshape society. I knew of scientific developments that hadn't happened yet, and unlike most people who possessed future knowledge in fictional stories, I wasn't starting from nothing.

I had a doctorate-level understanding of multiple scientific fields. I had some money saved from my own work. Not to mention, I got a system.

And most importantly, I had the one thing my first life never gave me.

Time.

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Next Ch: Step 1: Find a place to live