“Good,” I said. “Leave it there.”
“Some things stay.”
Here is what happened with my son.
Kyle didn’t come to Christmas.
He sent a check for four thousand dollars with a note that said “Watch.”
He’d sold it.
In January, he sent another.
Eleven hundred.
Then nine hundred.
Then twelve.
He’s been sending them every month since.
They come from an account at a different bank, in his own name, and Megan signs the envelopes.
He hasn’t missed one.
At that rate, he’ll be done around the time I’m eighty-one.
I’ve told him I’ll be here.
Rachel brings the grandkids every Sunday.
Kyle brings them every other Saturday.
He sits in Ray’s spot at the table.
He doesn’t open my banking app.
He doesn’t look at the recliner.
In February, Kyle got a job.
Not a good one.
Nights, at a warehouse in Killeen, loading trucks.
He told me on the phone like he was confessing to something.
