The second showed regular deposits.
And the
third revealed that the account had been opened in my name.
I stared at the balance.
It was far more money than I had ever managed to save myself.
“How is this possible?” I whispered.
Frank took a deep breath.
“Your father deposited the rent money you gave him. Most of it, anyway. He added money of his own whenever he could.”
I looked at the envelopes again.
For five years, I’d believed I was paying my father for the privilege of living in my childhood home.
I’d resented every dollar.
I’d watched him buy fishing equipment while I struggled to afford new shoes.
And now I was learning that he’d been saving the money.
But why?
Frank seemed to read the question on my face.
“Your father knew he wasn’t good at showing affection. He talked to me about it more than once.”
