Garrett stood beside the truck for several minutes.
He looked through the windows again.
Then he walked toward the driver's side and examined the interior.
I watched him.
I was pleased with the purchase, but I could already tell he was thinking about something other than how happy I was.
"That's a powerful truck," he said.
"It is."
"Would be useful for work."
I nodded.
He opened the subject of his business.
He talked about the kind of jobs he handled and the equipment he sometimes needed to transport.
I listened.
I knew enough about trucks to understand what he was getting at.
The F-350 would be useful for many kinds of work.
But I hadn't bought it for him.
I had bought it because Clara and I had wanted one for years.
Garrett leaned against the side of the vehicle.
"You know, Dad, this would make a lot more sense for me."
I looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
He spoke as though the answer should have been obvious.
"I could use it for the business."
I waited.
Then he made his request.
"You should transfer the title to me."
For a moment, I thought he was joking.
I looked at the truck.
Then back at my son.
"No."
He straightened.
I kept my voice calm.
"I bought this with my own retirement money. It's staying with me."
His expression changed.
The friendly look disappeared.
He stepped away from the truck.
"Dad, I'm trying to explain that I could actually use it."
"I understand."
"Then why are you making this difficult?"
I shook my head.
"I'm not making anything difficult. I bought a vehicle for myself."
He stared at me.
I could see his jaw tightening.
It reminded me of the way he used to look when he was younger and didn't get what he wanted.
Only now he was a grown man.
He had a house.
A wife.
A business.
And apparently, he still believed that my belongings should become his whenever he decided they would be more useful to him.
He tried again.
"Think about it. You don't need something this big."
I looked directly at him.
"I wanted it."
He gave a short, unhappy laugh.
"You're sixty-five, Dad."
"I know how old I am."
"You should be thinking about practical things."
I rested one hand against the truck.
"This is practical enough for me."
That was when he lost his patience.
His face became hard.
He looked toward the house, then back at me.
"Fine. If you won't give me the truck, then take it and find somewhere else to live."
I didn't answer.
He continued.
"If you want to live like you're completely independent, then you can arrange your own place."
The words landed harder than I expected.
I had already sold my house.
I had already given them the money.
I was living in their basement because I believed Garrett wanted me there.
Now he was telling me to leave because I refused to hand over a vehicle I had purchased with my own savings.
I looked toward Tiffany.
She had been standing nearby.
Her arms were folded tightly.
She hadn't said anything.
She didn't look surprised.
She didn't ask Garrett to calm down.
She didn't remind him that I had helped them buy their house.
She simply watched.
That silence told me more than an argument would have.
I looked back at my son.
"You're serious?"
He didn't soften his expression.
"You heard me."
I nodded slowly.
I wasn't going to beg.
I wasn't going to argue about the $640,000.
I wasn't going to remind him how many years I had worked to provide for him.
I had spent too much of my life believing that if I explained myself carefully enough, people would eventually understand.
But Garrett understood perfectly well.
He simply wanted the truck.
That evening, I went downstairs.
I sat on the mattress and looked at the few belongings I still had.
There wasn't much to pack.
Most of my old life had been sold, given away, or left behind when I moved into Garrett's house.
I took out a bag.
I began folding my clothes.
Then I picked up Clara's photograph.
I held it in both hands.
For a long time, I didn't move.
I thought about the house near the river.
I thought about the money.
I thought about the promises Garrett had made when I was still grieving.
I wondered how much of it had been genuine.
Maybe I had been too trusting.
Maybe I had mistaken his attention for love because I desperately wanted to believe I hadn't lost everyone after Clara died.
I placed the photograph carefully inside my bag.
Then I began gathering the rest of my things.
The basement was quiet.
Above me, I could hear movement in the kitchen.
Garrett and Tiffany were talking.
Their voices carried through the heating vent.
I wasn't trying to listen.
But then I heard my name.
"He'll be back," Garrett said.
I stopped folding my clothes.
His voice sounded amused.
"He won't last long on his own."
Tiffany answered.
"Then don't let him stay unless he gives you the truck."
Garrett laughed.
I stood perfectly still.
There was something especially painful about hearing them discuss my return as though it were already decided.
They weren't worried about where I would sleep.
They weren't wondering whether I had enough money.
They were discussing how to make me surrender something before allowing me back into their home.
I looked at the photograph on my bag.
Then I looked at the basement door.
I had spent weeks trying to convince myself that this arrangement could work.
No more.
I finished packing.
I made sure I had my important belongings.
Then I went upstairs.
The kitchen was quiet.
Garrett and Tiffany were no longer standing there.
I placed my metal house key flat on the kitchen table.
It made a small sound against the wood.
I looked at it for a moment.
That key had represented the home I thought I had been welcomed into.
Now it was simply something I no longer needed.
I picked up Clara's photograph and carried my bags outside.
The bronze truck was waiting in the driveway.
I opened the passenger door and carefully placed her photograph on the seat.
Then I climbed behind the steering wheel.
I didn't go back inside.
I didn't wait for Garrett to change his mind.
I started the engine.
And I drove away.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: I Crossed the State Line Before Sunrise, Carrying My Wife’s Photograph and Everything I Had Left
My Son Had Not Spoken to Me in Eleven Years, Yet He Arrived at My Mountain Home Acting as Though He Already Owned It
Part 4 of 20
