“Exactly.” Jeremy sounded pleased. “We could sell it, put him somewhere decent, not too expensive, and finally buy that house in Boulder we’ve been looking at, the one with the mountain view.”
My daughter laughed. Actually laughed.
“God, Jeremy, you should have seen him tonight. So grateful just to hear from me. He has no idea we’re planning this. The longer we wait, the more confused he’ll get. We should strike while he still trusts us completely.”
The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor Ellen and I had installed together twenty-three years ago. Every board laid by my own hands, every nail driven with thoughts of our family’s future.
I sat in the sudden silence of my empty house, staring at Ellen’s photograph. Her eyes seemed to bore into mine with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Disappointment, warning, or maybe just the terrible knowledge that comes to those who’ve already left this world.
The grandfather clock in the hallway, Ellen’s anniversary gift to me fifteen years ago, ticked steadily in the growing darkness. Outside, the first spring crickets began their evening song in the garden Ellen had planted, and I still tended. Something cold and hard settled in my chest, replacing the warmth I’d felt hearing my daughter’s voice just moments before.
My hands, weathered from decades of construction work, slowly curled into fists. They thought I was a burden. They thought I was confused, helpless, ready to be managed and discarded. They were already spending my money, already planning their new life on my grave.
But I wasn’t dead yet, and I wasn’t nearly as confused as they believed.
I don’t know how long I sat there in the dark, Ellen’s face watching me from the silver frame on the end table. The house felt different now, as if the walls themselves had heard my daughter’s betrayal and were holding their breath. My legs felt unsteady when I finally stood to turn on the lamp. The warm light fell across the living room we’d furnished piece by piece, each item chosen with care and saved for with sacrifice. The burgundy sofa where Caitlyn used to curl up doing homework. The coffee table I’d built in the garage, sanding it smooth while she played at my feet.
I walked to the kitchen and opened the drawer where I kept old receipts and papers. My fingers found the folder I was looking for without conscious thought. Twenty years of financial records I’d never thrown away because Ellen always said, “You never know when you might need them.” University of Colorado tuition receipts, $48,000 over four years. I remembered those double shifts, coming home with concrete dust in my hair and plaster under my fingernails. Ellen would have coffee waiting and would massage my shoulders while I paid bills at this very kitchen table.
“Roy, you’re working yourself to death,” she’d said one night, watching me calculate how to afford Caitlyn’s spring semester.
