My mom was sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed, staring at her phone but not touching it. Ray wasn’t in sight.
She didn’t even look up when I walked in. I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door and braced myself.
“He was humiliated.”
I leaned against the doorframe, exhausted. “He humiliated himself,” I said. “I just told the truth.”
She stood up fast.
“You think you’re some kind of victim here, Ian? You think your dad would’ve wanted you to throw it in our faces like that? We’ve raised you, put food in your mouth, a roof over your head—”
“That roof is mine,” I said, cutting her off.
“And you know it.”
She laughed bitterly. “It was sitting there, untouched. We needed it.
We didn’t think you’d even notice.”
You used it for yourself and acted like it was a favor.”
There was a pause. For the first time, I saw her expression crack. Just a little.
“We thought we were doing what was best for the family,” she said quietly.
“No,” I replied.
“You did what was best for you.”
For the next few days, we barely spoke. Ray stayed out of my way entirely. He wouldn’t even look at me, which honestly felt like a win.
At school, I kept my head down.
One night, after everyone went to bed, I pulled out the old fireproof box my dad gave me when I was 12.
Inside was a letter he’d written me years ago, something he told me to open on my eighteenth birthday.
But I couldn’t wait anymore.
I sat on my bedroom floor with the letter in my lap, unfolded it carefully, and started to read.
“Ian, if you’re reading this, I’m not around anymore, and that sucks. I wanted to be there for everything: graduation, your first car, your first heartbreak, all of it. But life doesn’t always let us pick the time we leave.
So I left you what I could. I want you to have a head start. Use the money wisely.
Don’t let anyone take it from you. It’s yours. You are not alone.”
I stared at those last words.
It’s yours.
You are not alone.Continue reading…
