“Yes.”
“We agreed we’d discuss major expenses.”
“He has never asked me for money before.”
“That doesn’t mean it won’t become a habit.”
I looked at her.
“He’s my father.”
“And this is our house.”
That stopped me.
Not because she was right.
Because the house was one more thing Dad had helped make possible.
Years earlier, after selling the last parcel of land he had inherited from his mother, he had paid most of the down payment.
Natalie knew that.
I did not argue about it then.
I carried the money back to Dad.
When I handed him the envelope, his fingers trembled around it.
“I’m sorry, son.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Usually, Dad hugged me before he left.
That afternoon, he didn’t.
It was such a small difference that I almost dismissed it.
But later, I would keep thinking about it.
About the adoption files.
About the way he looked toward the house before answering me.
About his fear that someone would accuse him of being confused.
And about the fact that he was trying to give me something he believed he should have given me years earlier.
The front door had barely closed behind him when Natalie turned on me.
“You made me look like an idiot.”
I could not believe that was what she had taken from the entire conversation.
“You embarrassed him first.”
“You always choose him over me.”
That accusation had probably been waiting longer than the argument itself.
I looked straight at her.
“He spent my entire childhood choosing me.”
Neither of us had much to say after that.
But Dad’s request stayed with me.
There was nothing ordinary about it.
If he had needed help with a bill, he would have said so.
If his truck needed repairs or something in his house had broken, he would probably have tried fixing it himself before calling me.
Instead, he needed certified documents, legal help, some kind of test, and old adoption records.
Most troubling of all, he seemed convinced he needed proof before he could tell me the truth.
For three days, I had no idea what he was doing with the money.
Then my phone rang from a number I did not recognize.
“Is this Grant Mercer?” a woman asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m calling from the hospital. Raymond Mercer listed you as his emergency contact.”
