By four thirty, I give up trying to sleep. I go back into the gym, run several miles on the treadmill, pump a few weights, take a shower, and start to feel a little bit better.

I glance at myself in the mirror. Trying to convince myself it's true, I state, "It's coming soon. I know it's coming soon." The anxiety I'm constantly battling while trying to show my father I'm ready to take over grows bigger the closer I get to January. I've tried to tap into the "the universe will give you what you ask for" mentality, but so far, it's not working for me.

After my pep talk, I go into the kitchen, prepare the same protein shake I drink every morning, then guzzle it down. I brush my teeth and step outside to the parking garage.

I get in my truck, and I'm halfway to the office when my father's name pops up on my dashboard screen.

Something inside me makes me hesitate. He only calls when something isn't to his liking or there's a problem. It rings again, and I answer, "Dad, what's going on?"

"Well, good morning to you too," he says.

I grunt. "Didn't know you called to exchange niceties. What's going on?"

"Jesus, it's barely dawn, and you already have an attitude for the day, huh?" he comments.

"Dad, can you get to the point of whatever this conversation is?" I demand.

"Why aren't you coming home tomorrow?" he questions.

I grip my fingers on the steering wheel tighter. "I told Mom I have a lot of work to do. I don't have time to come home for one day."

"It's Thanksgiving. You should be coming home for the weekend, not just one day," he says.

I tug at my hair, claiming, "I don't have time for that, and you know it. I've got a lot on my plate. Remember what it was like when you were running things?"

Years ago, he moved back to the ranch. He used to commute between Dallas and home, but he put me in charge of running the operations so he could back off a little. It's where I wanted to be anyway. I can't stand the small town I grew up in. There's not a lot going on, too much gossip, and memories I'd rather forget. And I'd rather work for a week with no break than put up with all the country-girl-turned wannabe Dallas socialites who'd love to sink their claws into me.

"It's a holiday. You're meant to be with family," my father restates.

I remind him, "Dad, you know what's at stake. I've got to renew these contracts. We also have the new acquisition to close."

"I thought you wanted to be the new CEO," he challenges.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I angrily accuse, "Let me guess. You're not retiring again."

"Didn't say that," he declares.