He never said anything.
By twenty-three, Dad and I barely spoke.
We passed each other in the hallway like strangers, and every month, I left $250 on the kitchen table.
Sometimes I would catch him looking at me. He never said anything.
Five years after Dad started charging me rent, he died of cancer.
Someone knocked on the door.
I’d spent years imagining how peaceful the house would feel without him. But after the funeral, I stood in the hallway staring at his work boots by the door, unable to put them away.
We’d barely spoken during his final week. Our last conversation had been about a leaking kitchen faucet.
Now there would never be another one.
That evening, someone knocked on the door.
“Your dad left this.”
It was Frank, Dad’s oldest friend. He was holding a cardboard box sealed with packing tape.
“Your dad left this with me.”
