Watch television.
Go to bed.
Repeat.
Then, one afternoon, I saw an advertisement for adult university enrollment.
At first, I laughed.
Me? Sitting in a classroom again?
Ridiculous.
But I kept thinking about it.
Then I started looking at programs.
I read course descriptions.
I imagined lectures, books, assignments, discussions.
And for the first time since losing Margaret, tomorrow seemed interesting.
That feeling alone was worth something.
“I don’t need the degree for a job,” I told my sons. “I want to learn.”
Ryan’s expression hardened.
“And you’re paying for this with your retirement savings?”
“My retirement savings.”
“Dad, that money is important.”
“It certainly is.”
“You worked your whole life for it.”
“Exactly.”
David rubbed his forehead.
“So you’re going to spend thousands of dollars sitting in classrooms with kids young enough to be your grandchildren?”
The excitement inside me began to drain away.
“Spend it? Or waste it?”
Neither answered immediately.
That silence told me more than their words.
I looked at David.
Then Ryan.
“You think the money should stay in the bank.”
“We think you should think about the family,” Ryan said.
“The family?”
“The grandchildren. Us. What happens later.”
And there it was.
The thing neither of them had wanted to say plainly.
My savings had stopped being my savings in their minds.
They had become an inheritance.
Money waiting for me to die.
I leaned back.
“What about my future?”
Ryan blinked.
“What?”
“My future. You keep talking about everyone’s future except mine.”
“Dad—”
“I’m still here.”
No one spoke.
“My future is still happening.”
That was the argument that broke us.
David said I was being irresponsible.
Ryan said grief had clouded my judgment.
They insisted they were worried about me.
Maybe part of them truly was.
But underneath that concern was something uglier.
They had already begun dividing my life into what I would leave behind.
And when I spent part of it on myself, they felt cheated.
I finally told them what I had been thinking all evening.
“You’re talking about me as though I’m already dead.”
David stood.
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is treating my life savings as money I owe you.”
He left shortly afterward.
Ryan followed.
I assumed we would cool down.
A week passed.
Then two.
Then months.
My calls went unanswered.
Christmas arrived.
Nothing.
My birthday came.
