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 took it anyway.

There were about twenty people most mornings.

I knew four of them by name.

One was a retired secondary-school mathematics teacher named Harold.

We once spent almost twenty minutes arguing about whether a percentage should be rounded before or after a calculation.

It was one of the best conversations I’d had in months.

Nobody there asked what I had done for a living.

I never told them.

That was one of the reasons I liked the place.

There was no performance.

Nobody had to pretend.

You had a box.

I had a box.

That was enough.

And every Sunday, without fail, Emmett called.

For three years.

Every Sunday.

He called from his office.

From airports.

From hotels.

Once from the parking lot of a restaurant.

Once from a car park at two in the morning his time because he’d forgotten what day it was.

He always asked:

“How are you doing, Dad?”

And I always said:

“I’m fine.”

Sometimes I added, “Son.”

He would tell me about the company.

I would ask about his staff.

He would tell me about a new contract.

I would tell him the weather was getting colder.

Then he would ask: