Fifty dollars here.
A hundred there.
Overtime bonuses.
Tax refunds.
Birthday money he never told me about.
And beside nearly every entry, he had written the same thing.
For his start.
My eyes burned.
I remembered every argument we had.
Every first of the month when he stood in the kitchen and said, “Rent.”
Every time I slapped the money into his palm.
Every time I thought he was buying beer with it.
But according to the notebook, the fishing equipment and beer weren’t purchased with my rent.
They were purchased with cash Dad earned repairing engines for neighbors after his shifts.
Then I turned the page.
The writing changed.
It became shaky.
Doctor says maybe two years. Could be less.
I stopped.
Frank lowered his head.
“What doctor?”
Dad had been diagnosed with cardiomyopathy three years earlier.
A weakening heart.
Progressive.
Difficult to predict.
He had known he might die suddenly.
