I called the adviser who handled what remained of Robert’s life insurance investments.
His name was Samuel Price.
I had avoided him because our conversations had become uncomfortable.
Every year he would ask whether I still intended to retire fully at sixty-five.
Every year I would say yes.
Then he would point out how much I had withdrawn.
Three years ago he had warned me.
“Barbara, if these transfers continue, your retirement assumptions no longer work.”
I had become irritated.
“It’s temporary.”
“I understand.”
“He’s my son.”
“I understand that too.”
No, I had thought. You don’t.
Now I sat across from him in his office while he reviewed the accounts.
He took off his glasses.
“You stopped the monthly transfer?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“That helps.”
The fact that he did not congratulate me made the conversation easier.
“Can I still retire?”
Samuel glanced at the numbers.
“Full retirement at sixty-five would be tight.”
My chest sank.
“But not impossible,” he continued. “Especially because your house is paid off and you have the pension.”
“What if I work until sixty-seven?”
“That changes things significantly.”
I laughed without humor.
“So I gave my son two years of my retirement.”
Samuel did not answer that.
Good advisers, I learned, knew when arithmetic had already said enough.
He turned the monitor slightly.
“There is something else.”
I looked.
“You’ve been keeping a separate savings account with about twenty-six thousand dollars.”
“That was for emergencies.”
“Whose?”
I stared at him.
He waited.
