By twenty-three, Dad and I barely exchanged words.
We passed each other in the hallway like strangers, and I left $250 on the kitchen table every month.
Sometimes I’d notice him watching me, but he never spoke.
Five years after he began collecting rent, Dad died of cancer.
I’d often imagined the relief of having the house to myself. Yet after his funeral, I stood in the hallway staring at his work boots beside the door, unable to move them.
We’d barely spoken during his last week. Our final conversation concerned a leaking kitchen faucet.
Now we’d never speak again.
That evening,
someone knocked.
It was Frank, Dad’s oldest friend, carrying a cardboard box sealed with tape.
“Your dad left this with me.”
He placed it on the kitchen table.
“He wanted you to open this only after he was gone.”
I laughed bitterly.
“What, did he save every dollar of rent I paid him?”
