Fourteen months since they’d opened it.
Some deposits were 80 dollars.
Some were 20.
One was five.
And one was nothing.
But there wasn’t one month when Ray hadn’t written something.
At the bottom was a folded piece of paper.
Not a bank statement, but a note.
I opened it.
“Kid,”
“It isn’t enough yet.”
“We’ll keep going.”
“Ray.”
That was it.
A short note that carried more weight than Ray probably understood.
It was the best birthday present I’d ever received.
Three hours later, someone knocked on our front door.
Mom answered.
I was in the kitchen.
I heard her say, “What are you doing here?”
Then a man’s voice replied.
“I came to see my son.”
I froze.
Ray walked out of the garage.
Mom looked at me before moving aside.
The man on our porch was taller than I’d expected.
Nice jacket.
