When I told my family I was retiring, they called me selfish and threw me out of the house I’d built for them. I had no plan—just a wheelchair, an old teddy bear, and one name I still trusted. I always said I’d work till seventy, ayuh.
I kept my hands busy even after the wheelchair took my legs. Ten winters in this chair and I still sanded cabinet doors smooth as sea glass, still fixed what other fellas called shot. I paid the last bit of David’s mortgage.
Moreover, I covered the private tutor and the college fund for David’s son when he was small. Lately, I paid for David’s tennis lessons and Chloe’s shopping trips, too. Folks around here call that being a provider.
Chloe called it “doing the bare minimum” with a smile so sweet it burned. The pain had been nipping at my joints for years, but that week it came on wicked hard. I stared at the pill bottle and at the old, threadbare teddy bear on the side table.
The bear’s button eye watched me like it knew the answer already. “I’m retiring,” I told the kitchen the next night. “Before the snow flies.
Doctor says I should.”
“Selfish,” Chloe said, that syrupy voice slipping. “Right when the house needs finishing? Really?”
Maybe the world keeps score in ways folks don’t see right off, I thought.
“It’s a tough stretch, Dad,” David said. “We counted on you to get us over the hump.”
“I gave you everything I could,” I said. “I gave you my old place so you wouldn’t have to fool with paperwork if something happened to me.
I’m tired, David. It’s time.”
“So you’re quitting,” Chloe said. “While we’re drowning.”
“Bad timing,” David muttered.
“Real bad.”
I set the bear on my lap and smoothed his bald spot. “Timing’s never good for folks who never plan.”
“Don’t start,” Chloe said. “You never paid for tennis when David was a kid.
He’s finally getting his dream. He needs time.”
“That’s rich,” David snapped. “I worked plenty already.
Let me live a little.”
“You been livin’ a lot,” I said. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Chloe tsked and went for it, heels clicking.
A courier stood there with a manila envelope and a handheld for my finger. My name was spelled right. I signed.
Old habit. “What is it?” Chloe asked, already reaching. “Mail,” I said, and slid the envelope beneath the bear.
“For the bills, put them on the pile. We’re tapped. Everything’s going to the build.”
David lifted his chin.
“You’re not reading the room, Dad.”
“I’m reading my body. It’s done.”
Chloe folded her arms. “If you won’t help, maybe you shouldn’t stay here.
We need the space.”
David wouldn’t meet my eyes. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated is a hole you keep digging,” I said. “I won’t hand you the shovel.”
“Then go,” Chloe said, sugary again.
“We can’t carry you and the project.”
It hit colder than the bay wind. Not a shout. Not a scene.
Just a clean slice. “Alright,” I said. “I’ll be out in ten.”
Up in the room David and Chloe gave me, I packed slow: two flannels, thick socks, the good sweater that still held a whisper of cedar, and the tool pouch with the screwdrivers I trusted more than most people.
The bear watched from the pillow. “Guess it’s you and me, Captain,” I told him. “One more move.”
On the way down, I passed family pictures: birthdays I paid for, a graduation cap I saved for, a front door I hung straight with hands that ached for days after.
David’s tennis racket leaned against the wall, strings bright as fish scales. The sight of it made the pain in my knees spark like static. At the threshold, Chloe hovered, blocking half the frame.
“You’ll let us know when you come to your senses.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I said, and wheeled past. ***
Outside smelled like wet pine and old rope. The wind bit through my flannel.
The sky had that low gray look that makes you check the woodpile. I set the envelope on my lap and slid a thumb under the flap. The letterhead flashed: something about a housing board.
I didn’t read much further, but one word jumped out — beneficiary. Mine, or someone else’s? Hard to tell.
My hands shook too much to check.
I stared at the gray sky and let the flap fall. My phone warmed my palm. I scrolled to the only contact I trusted — the one who once slept with this bear tucked under his chin.
I hit call. Five years now since I’d heard his voice for real. Long enough for a boy to grow into a man, and for me to start forgetting the sound.
No answer. No voice. Just that same empty click at the end.
The rain started slowly, just a few drops at first, soft as whispers against the metal roof of the bus stop. I watched them slide down the glass, one after another, tracing little rivers. The sound took me back.
It was years ago, back when Jamie was small enough to fit in the crook of my arm. We’d sit on the porch, counting raindrops sliding off the gutter. “How many so far, Grandpa?” he’d ask, face serious like a scientist.
“Seventeen. No, eighteen. That one just hit the bucket.”
He’d grin, clutching his teddy bear tight.
“If I catch a hundred, does that mean the sun comes back?”
He grew quiet after a bit, watching the rain. Then, in that small voice of his, he asked, “Grandpa, how come Mom and Dad don’t sit with us? Is it ‘cause they’re busy?”
“Guess so.
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