And he had told no one except Frank.
Not even me.
One entry read:
He finally got enough overtime to buy good boots. Came home with groceries instead because I was short after medication. I wanted to tell him not to. Couldn’t. If I let him start taking care of me now, he’ll never leave.
I covered my mouth.
I remembered that month.
Dad had complained about the electric bill.
I had secretly spent half my paycheck on groceries.
He never thanked me.
He only said, “Don’t expect that to cover rent.”
I had hated him.
Now, below that entry, Dad had written:
Put $180 extra in his account. He shouldn’t have had to buy my groceries.
My chest ached.
Page after page transformed moments I thought I understood.
When my car broke down, Dad had refused to loan me money.
But two days later, the mechanic mysteriously reduced the bill by $600.
