“Ray.”
He finally stopped.
“You didn’t have to do any of that.”
“Yeah.”
“Then why did you?”
For once, he didn’t have a joke ready.
He stared into the sink.
Then shrugged.
“You’re my kid.”
That was it.
No “son.”
No speech.
No hand on my shoulder.
Just three words from a man who had spent almost two years acting like they were obvious.
I hugged him.
He froze.
We weren’t really a hugging family.
Then his wet hands awkwardly settled against my back.
“You’re getting dishwater on me.”
“You’re the one who started this.”
I laughed.
So did he.
A month later, Ray finally bought new work boots.
I know because I went with him.
When he tried to pick the cheapest pair, I made him get the good ones.
The college account kept growing.
Slowly.
Some months there was $100.
Some months $20.
Eventually, Ray stopped writing down what he’d sacrificed on the statements after I told him it made me feel guilty.
