Only slightly.
“We were busy.”
“You were on vacation.”
“We already booked it.”
“Those words do not mean the same thing.”
“We thought you didn’t like Arizona.”
“I like invitations.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Dad, can we fix the card first and deal with the emotional stuff after?”
There it was.
I walked to the utility room and opened the deep freezer.
On the bottom shelf were four freezer bags.
Pierogi.
Teddy made pierogi every October of her adult life.
Potato and cheese.
Sauerkraut, which nobody but me liked.
Sometimes mushroom.
She made hundreds in one weekend, usually recruiting whichever children were available.
Her last batch had been made in October, four months before she died.
I had four bags left.
I rationed them like a man protecting a dwindling inheritance.
I brought one to the kitchen.
Roman stared.
“What’s that?”
I placed it on the table.
“October eighth.”
He frowned.
I pointed to the writing.
“Your mother’s handwriting.”
He looked away.
“You used to eat forty of those if she let you.”
“Dad, I really don’t have time.”
“I know.”
I pushed the bag toward him.
“Take it.”
“Why?”
“Because that is the last thing you are receiving from this house simply because you are my son.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“The cards are done. Transfers are done. Account access is done.”
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You’re forty-one.”
He stared.
“I am treating you like it.”
“You think because you worked in a factory your whole life, everybody else should live like it’s 1985?”
“No.”
His words landed harder than he knew.
“I think your expenses should fit the life you actually have.”
He put both palms on the table.
“You’ll regret this.”
Maybe the old Cass would have heard that as prophecy.
That morning, it sounded like a possibility I could live with.
“Maybe.”
He blinked.
“But it’ll be my regret.”
I nodded toward the pierogi.
“First one in about eleven years that belongs to me.”
Roman grabbed the bag.
For a second, I thought he would leave it.
Instead, he carried it to his truck and set it carefully on the passenger seat.
That small act kept me from giving up on him completely.
Karina came Wednesday.
Different entrance.
Different strategy.
She had been crying before she reached my porch.
“Dad.”
I opened the door.
She hugged me immediately.
A year earlier, that would have ended the conversation before it began.
“Trace’s business account is frozen,” she said. “We’re behind. If we don’t come up with eighteen-five by Friday, things get much worse.”
“What things?”
“The house.”
She wiped her face.
“Nell doesn’t deserve to lose her home.”
Still nothing about my birthday.
Nothing about Arizona.
A year earlier, I would have reached for my checkbook before she finished saying Nell.
Instead, I asked, “What happened to the twelve thousand in April?”
She froze.
Only for a second.
But I had spent nearly forty years watching indicators move less than that.
“What?”
“For Nell’s specialist.”
“That was different.”
“Which specialist?”
She looked at me.
“Dad.”
“What was the doctor’s name?”
Silence.
I took the printed statements from the counter.
Placed them between us.
“The money left my account Tuesday. Almost the same amount left yours Thursday and went into a brokerage account.”
Karina’s face drained.
“That wasn’t—”
“Was there a specialist?”
She began crying again.
This time differently.
Trace had convinced her they could recover investment losses with one trade.
Then another.
Then another.
The account grew for a while.
Then dropped.
They kept adding money, chasing what had already disappeared.
The twelve thousand was supposed to refill the account.
“And Nell?”
Karina stared at the table.
“Dad.”
“Did Nell need a specialist?”
“She had bronchitis in February.”
I felt something inside me go cold.
“One office visit?”