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 told her that was excessive.

She said Emmett could afford it.

I said I didn’t want to take advantage of him.

She said I wasn’t.

Then she asked for banking details.

I gave her a folder.

That was my mistake.

Not because the account was wrong.

It was the correct account.

It was an old joint account Marianne and I had opened in 1998.

Her name was still on it.

Mine was too.

It had been dormant for years.

I had never closed it.

I handed Thea the folder myself.

I didn’t open it.

I didn’t check anything.

I simply gave it to her and said, “That should have whatever you need.”

She found the account number.

She messaged me afterward.

The message contained the last four digits of the account.

She told me the first transfer would arrive the following month.

I replied:

Thank you. That’s all fine.

Six words.

I didn’t think about it.

Not for one second.

The first payment came.

Then the second.

Then the third.

And I didn’t spend any of it.

Not because I knew what was happening.

Because I never looked.

I assumed it was somewhere.

I assumed someone was managing it.

I assumed that one day, when I needed a nurse or a better apartment or some sort of care, the money would be there.