I looked at my son’s hands, which were wet with soapy water and red from the heat. He looked tired, but there was a coldness in his posture that I had never noticed before.
“I will pay the rent,” I said.
He turned back to the sink without another word, the water splashing against the stainless steel as he reached for another plate.
I walked out the side door into the driveway. The autumn air was cool, carrying the sharp scent of damp oak leaves from the neighboring yards. My old Ford pickup truck sat near the curb, its blue paint faded and its tailgate rusted at the hinges.
My grandson Noah was standing by the tailgate, his blue soccer jersey looking bright under the yellow driveway light. He was nine years old, and he was twisting the hem of his shirt with both hands.
“Is this all of it, Grandpa?” Noah asked, pointing to a single cardboard box in the truck bed.
“That is the last one,” I said, lifting the box out.
It was heavy, filled with my old books, a few framed photos, and a worn leather ledger I had kept since my first corner store opened thirty years ago.
