Sorry, kid. Tight month: $15.
Then one that made me stop.
Danny needed new glasses. I’ll make it up next month: $0.
The following month.
Doubled up this month: $80.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“Yeah.”
“Then why did you?”
He shrugged.
“College isn’t cheap.”
That wasn’t an answer.
Before I could tell him that, Mom called from downstairs.
“Birthday breakfast!”
Ray escaped immediately.
I stayed on my bed with the box.
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 a single month Ray hadn’t written something.
At the bottom was a folded piece of paper.
Not a bank statement, a note.
I opened it.
“Kid,”
“It isn’t enough yet.”
“We’ll keep going.”
“Ray.”
That was it.
A short note carrying more weight than Ray probably realized.
It was the best birthday present I’d ever gotten.
Three hours later, somebody 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 answered.
“I came to see my son.”
I froze.
Ray came out of the garage.
Mom looked at me before stepping aside.
The man standing on our porch was taller than I expected.
Nice jacket.
Expensive watch.
Gray beginning at his temples.
I knew him immediately anyway.
There were three old photographs of him in a box in Mom’s closet.
He smiled.
“Look at you.”
I couldn’t move.
“Happy birthday, son.”
Son.
Fourteen years without a birthday card, and suddenly I was son.
“Why are you here?”
His smile faltered.
“I know I’ve got explaining to do.”
“Fourteen years of it.”
Mom said my name softly.
But he nodded.
“You’re right.”
Then his smile returned.
“But I figured today wasn’t the day for excuses. Today’s for you.”
He put his hand on my shoulder.
I almost pulled away.
“Come outside.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
He led me toward the driveway.
That’s when I saw the bow.
