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His words hurt more than I admitted. Eventually, I stopped recording regularly.
By twenty-three, we barely spoke. Every month, I left $250 on the kitchen table, and he took it without a
Then, five years after he started charging me rent, Dad died of cancer.
After his funeral, I stood in the hallway staring at his work boots, wishing we’d had one more conversation. Our last exchange had been about a leaking faucet.
That evening, Dad’s best friend, Frank, knocked on my door. He carried a taped cardboard box.
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“Your dad left this with me. He wanted you to open it after he was gone.”
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I laughed bitterly. “Did he save all the rent money I paid him?”
“Open it first,” Frank said quietly.