The rent was so you’d be strong.
The account was so you’d never be cold.
I meant to give it to you when you turned twenty-five. I thought I had time.
I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry about the shoes. I bought you the boots that same week and then I stood in the hallway like a coward and couldn’t give them to you, because somewhere in me I was afraid that if I was soft with you even once, I’d go all the way soft, and I’d raise you the way your mother’s family raised theirs, and the world would break you after I was gone.
That was my mistake. Not the rent. The silence.
I was so busy making sure you’d survive without me that I forgot to let you know your father was in the house.
I was proud of you every single day.
The month you covered your own car repair and still paid your rent on time, I sat in this chair and cried, because I knew — I knew you were going to be all right no matter what happened to me.
