“I know.”
“And you said yes.”
I looked at the table.
“Yes.”
His voice became quieter.
“Why?”
That was the question.
The real one.
Not where the money was.
Not what Thea had done.
Not who was responsible.
Why?
I could have said I didn’t want to burden him.
I could have said I was proud.
I could have said I wanted to remain independent.
All of those things were true.
None was the whole truth.
The whole truth was uglier.
I had decided, years earlier, that my son’s life would be better if I were not part of its problems.
And once I made that decision, I stopped letting him be my son.
I made him a visitor.
A Sunday phone call.
A voice I reassured.
A person I protected from the truth.
I thought I was giving him freedom.
What I was actually giving him was helplessness.
He couldn’t help because I wouldn’t tell him what was happening.
Thea couldn’t tell him because I asked her not to.
And I couldn’t admit what I was doing because admitting it would have meant admitting that I was lonely.
That is a word old men don’t like.
Lonely.
It sounds like weakness.
