“I do. In an apartment I bought outright, cash, thirty years ago as an investment property.”
“And the car?” Christopher managed.
“Paid off. Reliable. Why would I need anything more?”
“The clothes?” Patricia asked, weakly now.
“Comfortable. Functional. I wore suits every single day for thirty-five years. I’m done with them.”
Richard was still staring down at the card in his hand as if it might rearrange itself into something more manageable. “But Michael never said anything. He told us you worked in finance, but he never—”
“He doesn’t know,” I said quietly. “None of it. Not one dollar of it.”
Michael’s head snapped toward me so fast I heard his neck crack slightly. “Dad?”
I turned to face my son directly. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to build a life on your own. And you did. I am incredibly, deeply proud of you.”
