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.

I assumed he knew.

That decision at sixty-two became the beginning of everything.

I told myself that I would manage.

I would stay small.

I would live cheaply.

I would not ask.

I would not complain.

And most importantly, I would never make Emmett feel responsible for my life.

So I moved into a small apartment on the north side.

The building was old.

The hallway paint was peeling near the electrical meter.

The radiator worked when it felt like it.

A repairman had looked at it four times.

Each time he said something different.

“Air in the system.”

“Old valve.”

“Pressure issue.”

“Probably needs replacing.”

I stopped calling him.

From November through March, I used a space heater beside the kitchen table.

It cost more than the radiator would have cost if it worked properly.

I knew that.

I was an auditor.

I knew exactly how much electricity that little machine consumed.

I simply didn’t care enough to fix anything.

Twice a week, I walked six blocks to a church pantry.

Tuesdays and Fridays.

Eleven minutes each way if I walked steadily.

Sometimes thirteen if my knee hurt.

I went early.

Soup.

Bread.

Powdered milk.

Tinned fruit.

I never liked the tinned fruit.