The morning my son handed me a golden envelope with a Caribbean cruise inside, I should have known something was wrong. Michael’s smile was too bright, his hug too enthusiastic, his voice pitched with an excitement I hadn’t heard since he was a boy asking for his first bicycle. But at sixty-four, after years of living alone in a brick house on Chicago’s southwest side, I was so starved for my son’s attention that I didn’t want to question the gift.
I wanted to believe it was real. “Dad, you’ve worked so hard your whole life,” he said, standing in my small living room with that golden envelope between us like a peace offering. The winter light coming through the window made his hair shine the same way his mother’s used to.
“You sacrificed everything for me. Clare and I decided you deserve something special—a real vacation, not just a weekend trip to Wisconsin to visit Aunt Helen.”
I opened the envelope with hands that trembled slightly from age and disbelief. Inside was everything you’d expect from a luxury travel agency—glossy brochures showing turquoise water and white sand beaches, a seven-day Caribbean cruise itinerary, first-class cabin accommodations, departing in just two days.
The kind of trip I’d postponed for decades because the money was always needed elsewhere. Michael’s private school tuition. His college expenses at Columbia.
His wedding five years ago that Clare’s parents had insisted be “done properly” at a country club I couldn’t afford to join. All the emergencies that come with raising a child alone on an accountant’s modest salary after your wife dies of cancer when that child is only twelve. I’d worked contract accounting jobs for small businesses on the South Side, sold my car when Michael needed books, pawned my watch collection when he wanted to study abroad for a semester.
I’d lived on instant noodles and discount groceries so he could eat well. I’d worn the same two suits to every professional meeting for fifteen years so he could have nice clothes for job interviews. And now, finally, he was giving something back.
“Son, this must have cost a fortune,” I said, staring at the glossy brochures showing turquoise water and white sand beaches. “Your happiness is priceless, Dad,” Michael replied, and for a moment I almost believed the warmth in his voice was real. My name is Robert Sullivan.
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