Even now, I can admit it felt harsh. But grief does not always make you wise. Sometimes it makes you desperate. I told myself I was choosing survival. I told myself I could not risk losing the house, the only stable thing I still had.
When the locksmith left, I stood in the quiet and tried to breathe.
To distract myself from the guilt that was already creeping in, I decided to clear out his room. I told myself it was practical. If he was going to treat me like that, he could not keep living under my roof. Packing his things would make it real and final, and maybe that would stop my mind from spinning.
I folded clothes. I placed books into boxes. I tried not to look at small personal items that reminded me he was still just a young man, still learning how to handle pain.
Then I bent down and checked under the bed, mostly out of habit, expecting to find a dusty shoe or a forgotten hoodie.
My fingers brushed against something soft and heavy.
A duffel bag, pushed far back against the wall.
It had my name on it.
I froze.
My heart began to pound in a new way, the kind that comes with confusion and dread at the same time. I pulled the bag out slowly and stared at it as if it might explain itself.
Then, with shaking hands, I unzipped it.
Inside was a savings account passbook.
An old fashioned one, the kind I had not seen in years.
At first, I did not understand what I was looking at. Then I saw the deposits, page after page.
Twenty dollars. Fifty dollars. Thirty. A hundred. Small amounts, but steady. Consistent. The dates stretched back four years. Summer jobs. Weekend shifts. Holiday money. Birthday cash.
Every line told the same story.
He had been saving.
