But the mortgage had been paid off nine years earlier.
Robert never got to see that.
He died of pancreatic cancer two months before the final payment.
Sometimes I still found myself thinking I should tell him something.
Then memory caught up.
Inside, I placed my handbag on the kitchen chair and made tea.
I expected Michael to call immediately.
Of course he didn’t.
He had no reason to know.
The transfer wasn’t scheduled for five more days.
That gave me five days to wonder whether I had done something terrible.
By eight that evening, I had almost called the bank back.
At nine, I opened my laptop.
At ten, I pulled out a yellow legal pad and wrote down what I had given Michael since Robert died.
Not love.
Not birthday presents.
Money.
College expenses after Robert’s insurance ran thinner than expected.
Twelve thousand for graduate school.
Seven thousand when Michael’s first car died.
Nine thousand when he and Jennifer got married.
Four thousand toward a hospital bill after Owen was born.
Forty-eight thousand for the house.
Then three years of mortgage payments.
I stopped when the number reached more than one hundred seventy thousand dollars.
My stomach tightened.
I had never added it all together before.
The total wasn’t exact.
Some things were missing.
Cash tucked into birthday cards.
Groceries.
School uniforms for the children.
The new refrigerator when Jennifer said theirs was leaking.
Money for summer camp.
Plane tickets.
That wasn’t what frightened me.
What frightened me was how ordinary every payment had felt.
Each one had arrived wrapped in a reason.
Just this once.
Until next month.
