There were dates, amounts, and short notes written in Ray’s careful handwriting.
I looked up at him.
“You paid for these things?”
“Some of them.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because you didn’t need to feel indebted to me.”
I turned another page.
There were more entries than I could count.
He had quietly covered small expenses for our family whenever he could. Sometimes he had paid a bill directly. Other times he had done repairs that saved us from hiring someone else.
I remembered those moments now.
The furnace that suddenly worked again.
The car that had been repaired before we could afford a mechanic.
The groceries that somehow appeared in the kitchen after a difficult month.
I had assumed my mother had managed them somehow.
She had known more than I did.
Ray reached into the binder and handed me a final sheet.
At the top was our home address.
