“Robert? It’s nearly nine o’clock. Is everything all right?”
I stared at Evelyn’s empty side of the bed.
“No, Margaret. Nothing is all right anymore.”
I told her what Brandon had said at the funeral.
I explained how Melissa had stood beside him, smiling as though they were announcing some wonderful business decision rather than abandoning a grieving father.
Margaret remained silent until I finished.
Then she asked a question.
“Have they actually told you to leave?”
“Not yet.”
“Have they threatened to stop paying for your accommodation?”
“They’ve stopped my allowance. Apparently, I’m supposed to become independent.”
She sighed.
“Robert, you have been independent for longer than Brandon has been alive.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
“There’s something else, Margaret.”
“Go ahead.”
“I want to sell the property.”
She didn’t answer immediately.
“Which property?”
“The six-bedroom house.”
Another silence followed.
“Are you certain?”
“Fourteen years is long enough.”
“Robert, that property is currently occupied by your son, his wife, and their children. If you decide to sell, we need to handle everything legally and carefully.”
“I understand.”
“And what about the college funds?”
“Keep them protected. Those accounts belong to the children. I don’t want Brandon or Melissa touching them.”
“Understood.”
I looked toward the window.
Beyond it stood the enormous house where Brandon had lived for years.
The house I had purchased.
The house I had maintained.
The house he proudly showed his friends whenever they visited.
“Margaret,” I said quietly, “I also want to make sure that nobody can use my name, my money, or my generosity without my permission again.”
“I’ll prepare everything.”
After we ended the call, I walked through the little apartment Evelyn and I had shared.
Her favorite reading glasses were on the bedside table.
Her slippers were beside the wardrobe.
A photograph of us on our wedding anniversary stood near the window.
I picked it up.
She was laughing in the picture.
I remembered that afternoon clearly. We had celebrated forty years of marriage at a small restaurant near the lake.
She had held my hand and told me something I never forgot.
“Robert, one day, our children may forget everything we’ve done for them. Don’t let that make you regret loving them.”
I kissed the photograph.
“I don’t regret loving him, Evelyn. I regret teaching him that love has no limits.”
The next morning, Brandon came into the apartment without knocking.
“Morning, Dad.”
I was making coffee.
“Morning.”
He looked around.
“Have you thought about what we discussed?”
I placed another cup on the counter.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I agree with you.”
His expression relaxed.
“Good. I knew you’d understand eventually.”
Melissa appeared behind him.
She was wearing an expensive cream-colored coat and holding her designer handbag.
“We’ve been discussing the household budget,” she said.
“Have you?”
“Yes. With the children getting older, everything is becoming more expensive.”
I nodded.
“That’s understandable.”
She glanced at Brandon.
“We think you should start contributing toward the maintenance of the apartment.”
I slowly turned toward her.
“The apartment?”
“Well, you’re living on our property, aren’t you?”
I almost laughed.
Our property.
How quickly people become owners when they forget who signed the original purchase agreement.
“How much were you thinking?” I asked.
“Perhaps fifteen hundred dollars monthly.”
Brandon shifted uncomfortably.
“Melissa, maybe we shouldn’t—”
She interrupted him.
“We have to establish boundaries, Brandon.”
I looked at my son.
He avoided my eyes.
“All right,” I said.
Melissa smiled.
“Wonderful. I’m glad we’re finally having a mature conversation.”
She left.
Brandon remained for a moment.
“Dad, don’t make this difficult.”
I looked at him.
“I’m not making anything difficult, son.”
He nodded and walked away.
That afternoon, I began packing.
I took three shirts, two pairs of trousers, my medication, my shaving kit, and a small box of photographs.
I also packed Evelyn’s letter.
Everything else could remain.
At approximately four o’clock, a taxi arrived.
I placed my single suitcase in the trunk.
Before leaving, I looked at the house one final time.
Six bedrooms.
Four bathrooms.
A beautiful garden.
A swimming pool.
A spacious kitchen where Evelyn had once prepared Christmas dinners for the entire family.
I remembered Brandon running through that garden as a little boy.
I remembered carrying him on my shoulders.
I remembered teaching him how to ride a bicycle.
For a moment, I wondered whether I was making a terrible mistake.
Then I remembered his words at his mother’s funeral.
Your allowance will stop.
I closed the taxi door.
“Airport, please.”
I wasn’t going to the airport, though.
Margaret had arranged a small furnished apartment near the coast.
It was quiet, comfortable, and completely separate from my son’s household.
For the first time in fourteen years, I was going somewhere because I wanted to.
Not because someone needed my money.
Not because someone expected me to babysit.
Not because someone wanted another favor.
I wanted peace.
At 7:15 p.m., my phone rang.
Brandon.
I didn’t answer.
Then Melissa.
I ignored her too.
At 8:30 p.m., Brandon sent a message.
Dad, where are you? We need to talk.
At 9:00 p.m., another message appeared.
Your apartment is empty. Why didn’t you tell us you were leaving?
At 10:15 p.m., I had seventeen missed calls.
By 11:00 p.m., the number had climbed to fifty-two.
Then seventy-nine.
Then one hundred and ten.
At midnight, my phone displayed 140 missed calls.
I stared at the screen.
For fourteen years, they had rarely called me unless they needed something.
Now, suddenly, I was the most important person in their lives.
I finally answered Brandon’s call.
“Dad!”
His voice was shaking.
“Where are you?”
“I’m safe.”
“What do you mean you’re safe? You disappeared!”
“I left.”
“You can’t just leave like that!”
I looked at the dark ocean beyond my balcony.
“Why not?”
“Because we need to discuss the house!”
There it was.
Not his mother’s belongings.
Not whether I was lonely.
Not whether I had eaten dinner.
The house.
“What about it?” I asked.
He lowered his voice.
“Dad, there’s a man here from the property management company. He says the ownership arrangements are changing.”
I took a slow breath.
“That’s correct.”
“What?”
“Brandon, you and Melissa have been living in a house that belongs to my company.”
Silence.
Then he laughed nervously.
“That’s not funny, Dad.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You’re saying you own this house?”
“No. I’m saying the company I own does.”
He went quiet.
I could almost hear Melissa whispering in the background.
Then he spoke again.
“Why didn’t you ever tell us?”
