We’ve finally paid off our house, that modest three-bedroom house in the neighborhood where Naomi grew up, the one we had to sacrifice so much for, the one where we brought Theo home from the maternity ward. I thought about buying something bigger, more luxurious, something that would make my father’s house look tiny in comparison. But Naomi talked me out of it.
“We love this house,” she said. “Our neighbors are our friends. Theo’s school is just down the street. Why would we leave simply because we can afford to?”
She was right. She’s usually right on these subjects.
So we stayed.
We no longer have a mortgage, which means we no longer have to worry, and that’s worth far more than any mansion.
We’ve finished paying off our cars. We’ve put some money aside so Naomi can resume her studies if she wants to get her nursing degree, which she had to put on hold when Theo was born because she couldn’t afford childcare and tuition at the same time. She hasn’t decided yet if she wants to go back to school, but knowing she can, knowing that this option exists, has changed something in her. She stands up straighter. She smiles more.
We gave some too. To the food bank where Grandpa Chester volunteered at Thanksgiving. To the church where he married Grandma Rose. To the local high school scholarship fund for students who want to pursue vocational training but can’t afford it.
“Your grandfather would have liked this,” said Naomi when I told her about the scholarship that helped children learn manual labor.
“I hope so. I hope he knows that.”
But I still work. I still get up every morning, put on my work clothes, and go to construction sites to run electrical cables through walls. I always come home tired, dirty, and satisfied with that particular kind of tiredness that only manual labor brings.
“You could retire,” Naomi sometimes says to me, watching me take off my boots after a long day. “You don’t have to work anymore.”
“I know. But I want to.”
“For what?”
“Because I love it. Because it’s important. Because Grandpa Chester worked all his life, even when he didn’t have to. And I think I finally understand why.”
She understands. She knows me well enough to understand. I don’t need a mansion or a luxury car. I have nothing to prove to anyone. What I need is the same thing Grandpa Chester did: the simple satisfaction of a day’s work, the warmth of a loving family, the peace of mind of knowing that what matters most is in good hands.
My father called once, about two months after my visit to the bank. It was the first time he’d called me in years. Usually, communications went through my mother, filtered and sweetened, to maintain appearances.
“Declan,” he said in a stiff, awkward voice, “I’ve been thinking about the situation. About your grandfather’s estate.”
“So what?”
“I think we got off to a bad start. I think there were some misunderstandings. I think if we sat down together, we could find a solution. A solution that would be fair for everyone.”
“Fair for all,” which means you receive a share of the money.
“It’s family money, Declan. It should stay in the family.”
“It stays in the family. My family. My wife and my son.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“I know exactly what you mean, Dad. You mean you want a piece of something you didn’t earn. You want to take advantage of a man you ignored for 30 years. You want to be rewarded for treating your own father as if he were unworthy of you.”
“I didn’t treat him like…”
“You visited him twice in nine years. You mocked his savings account. You called him senile. You told Preston and Bridget that anything he left behind would be worthless because he had never accomplished anything remarkable.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“The answer is no, Dad. Not now. Never. The money stays where Grandpa Chester wanted it to stay, with the grandson who came forward.”
I hung up.
He hasn’t called back since.
Leave a Comment