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.

“Are you all right for everything?”

And I would say:

“I’m fine.”

That was it.

Two words.

Sometimes three.

I’m fine, son.

And because I said it calmly, he believed me.

Or perhaps he wanted to believe me.

There is a difference.

At some point, Thea became part of that arrangement.

Thea is my daughter-in-law.

She is thirty-eight.

She is organized in a way that makes me tired just watching her.

She remembers birthdays.

She pays bills before they’re due.

She keeps copies of documents.

She once had three separate folders for a single holiday because she wanted to know what would happen if their luggage disappeared.

Marianne would have liked her.

I think she would have.

Thea and I never became particularly close, but we respected each other.

In February of 2022, Thea called me.

She said Emmett wanted to make sure I was financially comfortable.

I told her I was.

She said, “Dunstan, please don’t argue with me.”

I remember laughing.

She said they wanted to send me money every month.

I said I didn’t need it.

She said, “You don’t have to need it.”

That stopped me.

There was something in her voice.

So I agreed.

Eight thousand dollars a month.