The Pyramid of Regret

Marcus stood at the edge of the pool, the chlorine sharp in his nose, watching his daughter breaststroke through the water. She was twelve now, same age he'd been when his father took him to his first baseball game. That was before the pyramid scheme, before the indictments, before everything fell apart like a poorly executed double play.

"Dad, watch!" Maya called, cutting through the water with strokes that reminded him painfully of her mother. Sarah had been a swimmer too. Before she left, before the FBI knocked, before Marcus traded his family for a spot at the top of a pyramid that was always going to collapse.

He waved, forcing a smile. Swimming had become Maya's everything since the divorce—since the news crews parked on their lawn, since her friends' parents stopped answering calls. The pool was her sanctuary, the only place where the water drowned out the whispers.

Maya pulled herself from the pool, dripping. "I beat my time."

"You did." Marcus knotted his tie. He had another meeting. Another "opportunity." Even now, even after everything, some part of him still believed. That was the insidious thing about pyramids—they looked solid from the inside.

"You're leaving again?"

"Just one meeting, May. Then I'm all yours. We'll get pizza, watch the game. The Dodgers are playing."

Baseball had been his tether once. His father had taught him to keep his eye on the ball, to trust his swing. But somewhere along the way, he'd started swinging at pitches that weren't even there.

"Sure, Dad." Maya toweled her hair, already turning away.

Marcus walked to his car, his daughter's disappointment heavier than any indictment. Some men built pyramids to heaven. Marcus had built his on foundations of sand, and now he was watching the tide come in, wave by relentless wave, and he was finally learning how to swim.