Downstairs, a door opened.
Melissa laughed softly.
Brian groaned.
Someone was awake.
I closed every file, copied everything onto two flash drives, and hid one inside the hollow bottom of Helen’s jewelry box. The other went into my jacket pocket.
Then I showered, shaved, and put on my best charcoal suit.
The same suit I had worn to Helen’s funeral.
At seventy years old, a man understands that some clothes are not for celebration.
Some clothes are armor.
When I came downstairs, the dining room still looked like a crime scene made of birthday cake, dirty plates, and spilled wine.
Glasses sat abandoned on the sideboard. Chicken bones were piled onto napkins. Rice had been ground into the rug Helen had saved months to buy. Empty beer bottles lined the windowsill.
Near the front door, Max’s old dog bowl still sat on the floor.
The dry food inside had swollen overnight from spilled beer.
I picked it up, carried it to the trash, and washed my hands.
Melissa walked into the kitchen wearing one of Helen’s old robes.
I froze.
It was pale lavender cotton, with tiny embroidered flowers at the cuffs. Helen had worn it every Sunday morning. After she died, I folded it carefully and placed it in the cedar chest at the foot of my bed.
Melissa leaned against the counter and yawned.
“Morning, Mr. Bennett. You’re dressed up. Going somewhere?”
I stared at the robe.
“Take that off.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“That belonged to my wife.”
Melissa glanced down and smirked. “It was just sitting in that dusty old chest. I figured nobody was using it.”
Nobody.
The word cut through me like a blade.
Before I could answer, Brian shuffled in, barefoot, hair messy, still wearing yesterday’s wrinkled shirt.
“What’s with the suit?” he asked.
“I have appointments.”
He opened the refrigerator. “Can you make coffee?”
I looked at my son.
He did not look ashamed. He did not look sorry. He did not even seem aware that anything had happened.
That told me more than the dog bowl ever could.
“No,” I said.
Brian turned around slowly. “No?”
“No.”
Melissa gave a small laugh. “Wow. Still upset about the joke?”
I placed both hands flat on the counter.
“It was not a joke.”
Brian rolled his eyes. “Dad, don’t start. It was your birthday. Everybody was laughing.”
“At me.”
“You’re always so dramatic.”
“Am I?”
He sighed as if I were exhausting him.
Then his phone buzzed.
Melissa’s followed.
Brian checked his screen first. His face changed.
“Why was my card declined?”
Melissa grabbed her phone. “Mine too.”
They both looked at me.
I said nothing.
Brian’s jaw tightened. “Dad.”
“Yes?”
“What did you do?”
“I canceled the cards.”
Melissa straightened. “You can’t do that.”
“They were my cards.”
“We had an arrangement.”
“No,” I said. “You had access. Access is not an arrangement.”
Brian stepped toward me. “Turn them back on.”
“No.”
His voice lowered. “Don’t play games with me this morning.”
I almost smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because, for the first time in years, his anger did not frighten me. It revealed him.
“I’m not playing games,” I said. “I’m ending them.”
Melissa’s eyes sharpened. She was always faster than Brian. He reacted with anger. She reacted with calculation.
“Mr. Bennett,” she said, softening her tone, “last night got out of hand. Everyone had been drinking. Nobody meant to hurt you.”
