Twice a week I walk six blocks to a church pantry on Alder Street and collect soup, bread, powdered milk — enough to get me through.
Whenever Emmett called, he told me about the family trust he’d set up so I’d always be comfortable.
He said, “Thea manages it. You shouldn’t have to think about any of it.”
So I never asked. I assumed it was sitting somewhere for emergencies.
Then, on Father’s Day, he turned up at my door in a very good coat.
He stopped four feet inside it.
His eyes went from the walls to the heater to the tin of soup on my table.
“Dad,” he said. “Where’s the senior residence?”
“What senior residence?”
“Thea told me she moved you downtown months ago.”
“I’ve lived here three years.”
Then he asked it.
“Dad, are you happy with the eight thousand a month Thea sends you?”
The radiator clicked. Neither of us spoke for about four seconds.
