He looked at me and cleared his throat.
“Hey,” he said. “Son.”
By then, my mother had come up behind me. I felt her stop cold.
I said, “Dad?”
He gave a small nod.
“What do you want?”
He looked past me, saw her, and seemed to shrink a little.
“I need to talk to you both.”
My mother said, “You can talk from there.”
So he did.
He had gone bankrupt. His second wife had left him. He had sold what he could, lost the rest, and run out of people willing to help him.
Then he said the part that almost made me laugh.
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
At least that had an explanation.
He had found me through my store. My business is public, and my first name is on the website. One old contact still knew what town my mother had moved to after the fire. He hadn’t kept up with us over the years. He had only tracked us down once he needed something.
My mother turned away before he finished speaking.
“I’m not doing this.”
He spoke faster.
“Please. I just need help getting on my feet.”
I looked at him.
At the shame.
At the nerve.
At the fact that even now, he still knew exactly where to point his need.
And I knew what I was going to do.
