On Father’s Day my millionaire son walked into my freezing apartment, saw the tinned soup on the table, and asked how I was managing on the eight thousand a month his wife sends me. I told him nobody sends me anything.

A refund I never claimed.

A bank notice from 2017.

A document from 2018.

And hundreds of ordinary statements.

Four hundred and eighty opportunities.

Each one approximately eleven seconds long.

I could have opened any of them.

I chose not to.

For ten years.

The money was almost beside the point by then.

That was the strangest thing.

Two hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars is a lot of money.

But after eleven days of opening envelopes, I stopped thinking about the balance.

I thought about Marianne.

I thought about the house.

I thought about the pantry.

I thought about Emmett at twenty-six sitting beside his mother.

I thought about how many times he had asked me whether I was okay.

And I thought about how easily I had answered him.

I’m fine.

Two words.

A whole life can hide inside two words.

Eventually Emmett found me a new apartment.

Four streets from his house.

The radiator works.

The window faces south.

There is a small grocery store around the corner.

There is a pharmacy at the end of the street.

And there is a bakery that opens at six.

I don’t need the bakery.

I just like knowing it is there.

Emmett paid the deposit from the account.