AN: We are our own worst critics


It wasn't like Wilbur to miss dinner.

Carl had reported that yes, he'd found Wilbur in the back yard and had relayed the message that dinner was ready. What he seemed hesitant to relate, however, was that Wilbur had shrugged it off and said he'd eat when he came in.

It always took some time for the family to finally gather in the dining room, but as dinner started and there was still no sign of Wilbur, his parents exchanged concerned glances. When the meal was cleared and dessert served, Franny moved to stand, stopped only by her husband's hand on her arm.

"I'll talk to him."

The evening was warm, sun close to setting as he stepped out onto the lawn, but the first thing he noticed was the loud crack off to his right. The distinctive sound of a wooden bat hitting a leather ball echoed across the property.

Wilbur had picked up the sport in 9th grade, it was considered retro by then but he'd fallen in love with it. His parents had been a little concerned with him spreading himself too thin between all the sports and extracurricular activities he'd been involved in. There were times that it had been too much, but by the end of 10th grade he'd weeded out all the activities that didn't work for him and had excelled in those that did.

"Getting late, Will."

He got a noncommittal 'hey' in response.

"Not hungry?"

Wilbur stepped on the pedal and the machine pitched a ball, it was struck and out of sight. He was bringing the bat around for another swing before he finally answered.

"I'll eat later."

Cornelius relented, nodding vaguely while regarding his son. Wilbur had gotten so tall his last year of high school, no longer the gangly teen he was so used to. It was hard to come to terms with the fact that they stood eye to eye, he no longer looked down at his growing son.

Wilbur had graduated three weeks ago, he wasn't a little boy anymore.

He continued to study his son, noting how self assured he was in his stance and swing of the bat. He'd personally been ok when it came to sports, not great. It was one of the few things he couldn't relate to when it came to Wilbur. Mike Yagoobian wanted Wilbur to play at Midtown U badly.

Cornelius waited a moment before speaking again, something was wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint it.

"Forget your contacts?"

Wilbur eyed him briefly from behind the pair of sports glasses he wore.

"Pharmacy forgot to send the new ones."

"I can't imagine that's the-"

"It's not the problem. I can last three days without 'em. I'm fine."

"If you're sure."

Wilbur didn't respond, he only returned to his solo game.

Five hits and Cornelius was beginning to think the conversation was over.

"Will."

He swung and missed, letting the bat swing one handed on the follow through.

"You've been out here since I got home..." After a moment he added, for levity. "And I think you've offended Carl." He gestured to the pitching machine.

Wilbur popped a ball in the air. "Carl always thinks I'm gunna hit 'im."

A few moments passed, the only sound being the machine and the bat as it struck or missed a ball.

"Will, what is going on..."

"Nothing."

"It d-"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Mmhmm..." Cornelius sighed and rubbed the back of his neck with a hand, images of a 13 year old frustrated over math homework flashing by.

"So...this has nothing to do with graduation or anything?"

Wilbur hit the kill switch for the machine and turned toward his father, swinging the bat up and holding it over both shoulders.

"You know I was voted most likely to succeed?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Succeed at what? I don't even know what school I'm going to."

"You don't have to- Will, you're 17."

"What were you doing at 17? Or mom? Or Grandma and Grandpa?"

He continued before giving his father a chance to speak. "You were all forming your own companies or making scientific breakthroughs or inventions-" He flipped the bat around in his hands.

"I'm hitting baseballs in my backyard..."

They spoke at the same time.

"Wilbur that's enough, you know-"

"It says right in the yearbook, future owner of Robinson Industries-"

"-you can do anything you put-"

"What if I don't want to own Robinson Industries?"

They both fell silent then.

Cornelius sighed and crossed his arms. "You don't, at all?"

Wilbur kicked the end of the bat with his toe. "That...was an exaggeration..."

Cornelius stepped forward and clapped a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Everyone feels the same way at your age." He held a hand up when Wilbur made to protest.

"I did, your mother did, our parents did."

"Unlikely."

"Let me finish." He scolded lightly before continuing. "This is a big step in life, you can plan and plan all you want but the future might have something different in store. It's understandably scary."

"If I don't succeed...?

The little boy was suddenly back, the one who expected his parents to make everything alright.

"You try again. Plus do you really think we'd let you struggle?"

"That's the problem!" Wilbur took an abrupt step back. "How do I know if anything I do will be me and not you? Dad, I love my family, but everyone thinks I'm handed everything because I'm Cornelius Robinson's kid."

"At times you are..."

"Not helping."

"You could always use another last name." He shrugged. "There's a number of them you could choose from."

Wilbur narrowed his eyes, not sure he liked the direction that comment could lead them. "No, thank you."

They'd never really cleared the air over Cornelius' true mother, even after so many years, but that was a discussion for another time.

"Will. You're going to have to realize, no matter what you do, someone will try to take the credit from you. It's because he's a Robinson. He was given everything. He didn't do that on his own. Someone will always try to make you feel inferior."

He pulled his son into a crushing embrace. "Don't let that someone be you."

Wilbur was stunned momentarily before he returned the gesture. As usual, Cornelius had hit the nail on the head.

Wilbur sighed roughly as he stepped back again. "I just-...I want to be as good as you-"

"Don't be as good as me." Cornelius shook his head and poked his son in the chest. "Be as good as you."

He was happy to see a hesitant, yet sincere, smile.

"Now." He put an arm over his son's shoulders as they started back for the house. "You don't know which school you're going to? Really?"

"I do...I just don't know how to break the bad news to Coach Mike..."

"You can worry about it later, there's a plate saved for you inside."

"Great." Wilbur smiled fully for the first time that evening.

"I'm starving."