I told my dad we couldn’t afford to chip in for his retirement trip, and he brushed it off—“Just your presence is enough.” But when we arrived at the cabin, he gave my brother and me each a thick envelope. Mine was empty. I smiled through it.
Later that night, I peeked at my brother’s envelope and saw a check for $15,000.
My stomach dropped. I quietly tucked it back into the envelope and returned it to my brother’s duffel bag.
I wasn’t trying to steal. I just had to see it with my own eyes
Dad had told me the same thing he told Patrick: that this weekend was just about relaxing and celebrating him retiring after 42 years of work.
He’d been a plumber for most of his life, raised two kids after Mom passed away, and never really took a break.
We all agreed he deserved a few days away in that cabin. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a deep pang of something—jealousy? hurt?
Maybe both.
Things had been tight for my family for years. My wife Rachel lost her job last winter, and I was working two shifts at the auto parts plant.
We barely made rent last month. That check could’ve erased so much worry.
Patrick, of course, never struggled.
He was the “responsible one.” Always saved, always invested, always got promoted. He and his wife had a fancy house, new cars, and kids in private school. He didn’t need the money.
The next morning, I sat next to Dad on the porch.
The lake shimmered, birds chirped, and he sipped his coffee like nothing was wrong. I wanted to ask about the envelopes.
Why did Patrick get a gift and I didn’t? Had I done something wrong?
Instead, I said, “You sleep okay?”
He nodded.
“Slept like a log. You?”
“Pretty good,” I lied. Patrick came out later, all smiles, and offered to cook breakfast.
He joked about hiking and fishing and even suggested we play cards like we used to when we were kids.
He seemed totally at peace. I watched him move around with ease and kept wondering—did he even know I didn’t get anything?
By Sunday morning, it was eating me alive. I couldn’t enjoy the fishing or the food or even the stories Dad told from his workdays.
I finally pulled Rachel aside when we were alone in the kitchen.
“I think Dad gave Patrick fifteen grand,” I whispered. “I didn’t get anything.”
She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure?”
“I saw the check.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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