Not awkwardly. Not nervously. It was dismissive — like the idea itself amused him.
“You don’t have kids,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m basically your retirement plan. Supporting me is your responsibility.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
Childless.
As if the years of scraped knees, late-night conversations, school events in the rain, and quiet sacrifices didn’t count. As if nursing his father through months of pain — until my hands cramped and my back burned — hadn’t bound us into something resembling a family.
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t cry.
I nodded, went to bed, and stared at the ceiling until morning.
The following day, while he was out, I changed the locks.
It felt both heartless and unavoidable — like cutting something away to stop yourself from bleeding out. I told myself I was choosing survival. I told myself I was protecting the only stability I had left.
To keep my mind busy, I started clearing out his room. I folded clothes, stacked books into boxes, and tried not to dwell on how quiet the house had become again. When I crouched to check beneath the bed, my hand brushed against a small duffel bag shoved deep against the wall.
It had my name written on it.
For illustrative purposes only
My pulse stumbled. I pulled it free and unzipped it with hands that no longer felt steady — or entirely my own.
Inside was a bank passbook.
One I had never known existed.
The deposits weren’t large — twenty dollars here, fifty there — but they stretched back four years. Summer jobs. Weekend shifts. Birthday gifts. Holiday cash. Every page told the same quiet story: consistency, patience, intention.
At the top of the very first page, written carefully — as though the words had been erased and rewritten until they looked just right — were four words that knocked the breath from my chest:
Mom’s Retirement Fund.
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