My brother said he was taking care of Dad after the stroke. I sent money every month.
One day, I showed up unannounced.
Mark tried to block the door. I pushed past him.
The cold hit me instantly. Dad sat curled on the couch under a damp, thin blanket, staring ahead. His trembling finger lifted.
“Box,” he rasped.
Mark grabbed my arm. “He’s fine. Breaker tripped.”
I knelt beside Dad. His hands were ice. “It’s Sarah,” I whispered.
“Box,” he said again, pointing to the fireplace.
On the mantel sat Mom’s old recipe box.
“Don’t,” Mark warned.
I opened it.
Pawn tickets.
Mom’s necklace. Dad’s ring. My graduation watch.
“What did you do?” I breathed.
“I needed cash,” he muttered.
I ran to the kitchen. The fridge held ketchup and a dying lime. The pantry was dust.
“I sent grocery money!”
“He’s on a diet,” Mark said weakly. “I keep it in my room.”
Behind me Dad whispered, “Hungry.”
That broke me.
I put his coat on, got him into the car, and drove to a diner. I watched him eat like someone rescued from sea.
That night he slept warm beside the recipe box. I called a lawyer, a nurse, a locksmith.
The truth came fast—debts, loans, gambling.
Dad came home with me.
Later he drew a yellow house, smoke from the chimney. He pointed at it, then at me.
“Home,” he said.
I understood.
Care isn’t money.
It’s showing up.
